


i'll paint a ray of hope around you

by JaneScarlett



Category: Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: F/M, Library Fix-It
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-11
Updated: 2015-04-06
Packaged: 2018-01-19 00:03:17
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 32
Words: 71,511
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1447906
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JaneScarlett/pseuds/JaneScarlett
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“We’re all stories in the end…and this story is about a Lord, voyaging the world in his magic ship; and a Lady, waiting to be rescued.  There are quests to be fulfilled, people to be saved… and a happy ending?” The Doctor grinned at the children.  “Might just be.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue: Story Time at Christmas

**Author's Note:**

> Title is from the movie: Pete’s Dragon  
> This was originally started for a request (Library fix-it + Nine/River) from someone who knows me well enough to know I can’t resist a challenge. Thanks for that, sweetie. And happy -much belated- birthday.

They gathered around him in his rooms; and from the big, almost grown-up children to the tiniest of the little ones, they all watched eagerly as the Doctor sighed, wriggling in his chair to get comfortable.

This -right here- was his favourite bit. This was what made Christmas worthwhile for him.

"Sometimes," the Doctor began, speaking loud enough that even the children in the back of the room could hear him, "we talk about amazing things that have happened, and we call them fables. Or legends."

"Or fairy tales!" a little girl sitting right in the front piped up. The Doctor frowned for a moment before remembering her name. Liz. A little ginger girl with big eyes and no front teeth. He nodded, giving her a cheerful wink. 

"Or fairy tales," he agreed. "I even knew someone who mistakenly called them History... But of course, she _was_ an archaeologist. Can't blame her for getting that wrong."

There were giggles from the older children in the room, the ones who had heard versions of this particular tale before; and the Doctor laughed himself as he looked into that crowd of small faces.

"You can call them a lot of things, but I've always preferred my word. _Stories_. Because that's what we all are, in the end. Some true or embellished, confusing or mysterious; some that are happy or sad or even have a little bit of magic and impossible possibilities... Oh, you get all sorts. And this one,” the Doctor said, leaning forward and gazing around the room to meet every single pair of eyes, “is a little bit of _everything_.

“Because this one is about a very lonely Lord who went off see the world in his magic ship; and a beautiful Lady who got lost and stuck in a prison and was waiting to be rescued. There are quests to be fulfilled and items to be found and people to be saved. There’s even a Sea Witch and an imp and a chatty computer and some fighting and running… well, lots of running.”

“And a happy ending?” Liz called out again, too excited to keep still. “Is there a happy ending for everyone, Doctor?”

He looked at her, trying to be serious; but even he couldn’t hold back the grin that crept slowly over his face.

“Hmm,” said the Doctor thoughtfully. “ _Might_ just be a happy ending… but that’s no way to tell a story! Giving you the end and not the beginning! Time isn’t a straight line, but still… there _is_ an order to these things.

“So.” He sat back in his chair, templing his fingers and smiling benevolently at the children. “Shall I start this story with those old famous words, known throughout the Universe? Yes. I think that’s a _fantastic_ way to start.”

“Once upon a time,” said the Doctor, “all the way back in 2004, the Ninth Doctor walked the streets of London…”


	2. An Imp in London Town

He looked at the ground as he walked the London streets, taking intense interest in each cobblestone and uneven bit of paving… because looking up, looking at the night sky only served to remind him of what he’d lost. Thrown away, even. With both hands.

 _Not my fault_ , the Doctor reminded himself. It was like a mantra, those words. Every time he stopped running, stopped moving for long enough, he thought of flying away from Gallifrey for the last time; and the guilt crushed him anew. 

_Gone, all gone. My home is gone, my family, friends; it’s all **gone** …_

And then he’d say it again, over and over in his mind. _Not my fault, not my fault._

Not that chanting those words helped. They didn‘t; but a little piece of him hoped that maybe one day he’d say them enough that they’d be true. Actually provide comfort. 

_Not my fault, not at all. **Their** fault._

But those words weren’t true either. It was their fault for forcing him into it; but oh, his too for actually doing it.

He was so busy looking at the ground, watching where his feet fell that he was startled when something moved in the corner of the street. A shapeless bundle under a ragged blanket shivered and twitched; and the Doctor recoiled when a frail green hand stretched out toward him.

“Alms, milord? Alms for the poor?”

“Two things,” the Doctor said, eyeing the hand groping toward him with suspicion. “No wait, three.

“First of all, in Twenty-first century England, no one hangs around on street corners at midnight, asking passer-by’s for alms. Spare a pound, perhaps. Play on my sympathies by telling me how hungry you are, or how cold. 

“But alms belong to another century. You ought,” he continued, sounding rather cheerful, “to get your terminology right if you‘re going to go begging round here.”

The figure went very still, one green hand staying outstretched with its skin shining a pale jade even under the moonlight.

“Noted, milord,” it whispered. “I‘ll check my wording from now on. But that was only one thing. What are the other two?”

“The second,” said the Doctor curtly, “is that you’re simply the wrong colour. You’re in England. On Earth. Beings of Earth are not-” he took a step closer, pulling heavy woollen fabric off the little figure, “-green.”

Beneath the blanket, sitting cross-legged on the London street was an imp straight out of the fairy tales. Short and pale green, childishly androgynous, with a crop of richly verdant hair rippling in shiny waves down slender shoulders all the way to the pavement. Large black eyes with no whites or irises, strangely bug-like in a small pointed face glittered at the Doctor.

“Some people are green,” protested the imp.

“Not humans. If you’re going to hang around on Earth, you have to look the part.”

“Like you do, milord?”

The Doctor shrugged. “I can pass, yes. At least I’m not an unnatural colour.”

“I was told to tell you it’s not easy being blue.”

“And yet, you’re green.”

“Easier to be green than blue. And you’re so very blue, milord.”

“I,” snapped the Doctor, “am nice and pink, thank you.”

“Pink on the outside, perhaps,” a small pointed tongue darted out, licking pale green lips, “but blue on the inside. Like a Gobstopper.” 

The Doctor cringed. “Thank you for that commentary. But I’ve better things to do than stand around at midnight arguing about colour with a… what are you, anyway? No,” he said, holding up a hand, “I don’t care what you are.”

“Don’t be stupid. You _have_ nothing better to do.”

“Do so.”

“Do _not_ , milord.” The imp crossed its arms, glaring upward. “And don’t argue. Anyway, you said three things, three things to tell me; and you’ve only said two.”

“So I have. Pardon me for forgetting that. The third thing is,” the Doctor surveyed the figure sitting implacably on the street with a hint of distaste, “that no one says ‘milord’ like that. Not nowadays.”

The creature giggled, a shrill high-pitched sound that made the Doctor roll his eyes.

“Except that you must always use the correct form of address for people, shouldn’t you? And I think I’m right about who you are. Leather coat, those blue eyes reflecting your sad, blue inside…and those ears. I was told to look out for those ears.”

“What’s wrong with my ears?” the Doctor protested. He hadn’t looked in a mirror, not properly since the last time he’d regenerated. Didn’t really care what he looked like, this go round. If there were justice in the Universe, he’d look like as much of a monster as he felt inside… but no. A glimpse had shown him cropped hair and blue eyes, sharp nose and defined jawbone. Normal enough. No one should scream and run away when they saw him.

“Those ears are ridiculous. Still,” the imp shrugged, “I was told to watch for them. He said I’d know you by them; know that you’re the milord I’m waiting for.”

“I'm not a milord,” the Doctor said flatly.

“Well, you're not a milady. And I think you are,” the being answered slyly. “I think you must be the Lord of Time I've been waiting for.”

They eyed each other, the imp with satisfaction and the Doctor with suspicion.

“You’ve been waiting for me?” asked the Doctor. “Why? Who sent you? And what are you? Don‘t know many green things that look like you.”

“I’m from quite far away,” the imp said. “Like you, but in a very different way. And I’m repaying a favour. Was sent by someone with a supreme interest in you to help…”

“Not being much help,” the Doctor muttered. “Being a pain, more like. Give me your name, at least.”

“Names are important, and I can’t give you mine.” The imp shrugged again. “But you can call me your guide, if you‘d like. Because there is something for you to do, something big and important that only you are capable of. There is a lost and beautiful Lady who needs to be saved...”

The Doctor raised an eyebrow. “A lady who needs to be saved? Where is she, in a lake or something, clutching a sword?”

The imp snickered. “Not a lake, certainly. A pond, perhaps.”

“You want me to rescue a Pond Lady.” The Doctor pretended to think, tapping his cheek with one finger. “Nope. Not interested.”

“Alright then,” snapped the imp. “If I call her a Princess, would that make it better for you? She needs to be saved no matter who she is. She is crying for her Prince Charming to rescue her.  
There are tasks to win through, trials to overcome, maybe even danger to avert…

“Are you interested, milord? In taking on the mission?”

He paused for a moment, just long enough to make the little creature think he might actually be willing to accept…

“No. I’m no one’s charming Prince. But thanks for the message.” He turned to walk away, and the imp laughed.

“You’re not full of charm, it’s true. But what if I were to tell you milord, that you must do it?”

The Doctor sighed. Remembering flying away from a time lock, grief and anger in his hearts so heavy he wondered why he didn’t sink straight through the TARDIS floor, plummeting to the stars beneath him.

“Sometimes,” he said softly, “you must do a lot of things. Good or bad. But this one,” he sneered, “rescuing a Princess or even some Lady… _this_ sounds like something I can walk away from.”

“Then what if I tell you,” the imp said slyly, ducking its head and peering up at him, “that this will make your dreams come true?”

“I don't dream.”

“Come now, Milord Time. No lies between us!” The creature giggled like a child. “Everyone dreams. And if you're a good boy -a very very good one, who does what he’s supposed to- then maybe what you want will come true.”

“I'll be a real, live boy?” the Doctor mocked. “Thanks anyway.”

“No. If you’re very, very good… then I was told to tell you that even you can get your reward. The best one of all.

“You won't be alone anymore.”

He was turning to walk away when the imp whispered the last words; and he wished he could unhear them. Useless pretending they didn't affect him. He had always been lonely. A lonely little boy, a lonely man even when he was out travelling the stars, companions at his side. Lonelier still when he returned to Gallifrey, at their beck and call during the Time War.

And loneliest of all now. Planet destroyed. His race destroyed. Last Time Lord standing; and miserable because of it.

“Got your attention now, haven’t I?” The imp stood up, stretching thin arms above its head and arching its back like a cat. “I was told that if you wouldn’t just do it, help that poor trapped Princess… those would be the magic words to use. And he was right!”

“Fine,” the Doctor snapped. “Yes, those were magic words. So then, you've got my attention. What do I do to rescue a princess? Do I need some sort of sword?”

“No. No swords for you. Only this.”

With a graceful bow, head down and hand outstretched, the imp held something out and the Doctor took it, turning it over in his hands with a bemused smile and raised eyebrow.

“Who uses a CD to rescue a Princess?”


	3. The Witch at the Bottom of the Sea

Long hair, River decided grumpily, was a pain. Bad enough when she played the part of the witch, watching hair growing at an alarming rate from Charlotte’s head, her fingers twisting it into a smooth, never-ending plait. Bad enough when she had to climb said plait, feeling it slip beneath her hands like a rope of silk thread. 

But this time, she was Rapunzel. Josh and Ella had insisted, Charlotte had gleefully agreed; and so where did that leave her?

In a tower. Blond curls _everywhere_. Falling in a heavy weight off the back of her head, tied unevenly throughout its length to provide foot-and-handholds for when the witch came to visit. Dragging in coils all through the dusty corners of the floor. Piled even on the table and draped across the tops of bookshelves.

Insanity. It had never been her favourite story, and yet Rapunzel had always seemed so… romantic. Most girls -herself included- had always thought the idea of that long hair so fetching and beautiful and feminine… 

But River, alone in a tower with only her hair for company found herself having an alarming number of decidedly un-fairy tale thoughts. If this story were even remotely true, what would Rapunzel's septic system have been like? In a tower with no doors and only a single window, could she even have had running water? How on earth did she shower? Didn’t her skin crawl, knowing that even if she took a bath, she’d still be filthy by osmosis because her hair was long enough to fill five bathtubs by itself?

For that matter... how much would her conditioner bill be to keep this mass in good shape? Most likely it’d be the debt of a fairly well-off country. And, wouldn’t it have been riddled with split ends...?

She was on the verge of driving herself mad when she heard the witch’s call. Gathering armfuls of hair, shoving the rest along with her feet, River shuffled to the window, dumping the entire load down the side of the tower.

“You look cross today,” Charlotte said when she emerged from the window, dressed entirely in black with a crooked nose fixed on her face.

“I am cross today,” snapped River. “I hate my hair, and I hate this tower and I absolutely _hate_ this story.”

Charlotte’s face fell, small shoulders drooping sadly. 

“I thought you’d like it,” she said plaintively. “You always play the witch and any other bad people. I thought that for a change, you’d like to be someone good. _I_ love playing Rapunzel…”

River put her arms around the child, feeling awful for taking out her frustration on her.

“I‘m sorry,” she whispered, brushing a kiss over Charlotte‘s forehead. “I know you do.”

“She’s not very you though, is she?” Charlotte wrapped her arms around River’s waist, dark eyes peering up seriously. “Waiting.”

“You know me quite well now,” said River with a tiny, mirthless laugh, “I’ve never been good at waiting.”

Or being trapped. Wrapped up in one story and tied with a pretty bow were the things River hated the most. Being jailed, unable to escape; and being forced to be patient until her prince showed up.

Story of her life, really. At least, the life she was living right now.

“I bet you would have cut off your own hair,” Charlotte said, eyes shining. “Then tied it to your bed and climbed down it yourself to escape forever.”

“Sounds like we’re writing up a new fairy tale right here,” River laughed. She sat on the stone floor, sinking into the long hair like it was some very bushy -yet oddly comfortable- cushion, with Charlotte still in her arms, head resting against River’s shoulder.

“What else?” prompted Charlotte. “What would River-Rapunzel have done then? After she escaped?”

“Maybe she would have gone to find her prince,” River answered. “Maybe he got side-tracked or distracted; he does, you know. Or maybe he needs to be rescued himself.”

She continued talking, weaving a long and exciting tale of adventure and rescue for the child in her arms; but her mind was somewhere else. Trying to figure it out, as she had all this time. Was it days or weeks she’d been here? Months? Sometimes it felt more like years and centuries. 

Days and nights weren‘t a finite quantity in the Library; and anyway, outside in the real world, she’d always measured the passage of time by _him_. Events were what was important, when every day had a depressing sameness to it. Daylight hours were spent behind bars in Stormcage, but her nights were bright, spangling _events_ spent with the Doctor.

And even later on when he didn’t show up as frequently, or after she’d left prison; there were always ways to mark time. Daytimes were for classes, for students who called her Professor and wrote long papers to prove their intelligence. Night-times were for adventure, sometimes seeking him out or by herself.

“How long has it been,” River asked suddenly, jiggling Charlotte slightly in her arms. “How long have I really been here?”

“You can’t ask me that,” the little girl answered. “You know you can’t; I’ve told you.”

“Because you don’t really know?”

“I…” Charlotte faltered, small face pinched and serious. “I do know, sort of. But I promised I wouldn‘t say. I promised you’d be happy, and if I tell, then you _won’t_ be. Please don’t make me break a promise?”

Even after all this time, River found she couldn’t hate Charlotte. The child wasn’t responsible for the fact that to River, this entire limitless database was just another form of jail. A large one, a varied one; but one with unbreakable walls to keep her contained within the confines of Charlotte’s mind. And Charlotte herself couldn’t even help that she was River’s jailor, because she never intended to be. The Doctor had extracted a promise from a child to keep River safe; and like a child, she was doing what was asked for to the best of her ability.

So she didn’t say anything else as she carefully stood up, brushing off her skirt and willing away the medieval gown and long hair until she stood back in her normal attire. White dresses were lovely, frail ethereal things; but River had always felt more comfortable in jodhpurs and a belted dress, gun holster swinging insolently from her hips. 

“Come on,” River said, trying to sound cheerful as Charlotte clambered to her feet, clinging once more to her hand. “Let’s go see what Josh and Ella are doing? Maybe it’ll be a good story.”

Charlotte thought for a moment, face screwed up in concentration as she tracked where the other inhabitants of the Library were, before she sighed. 

“No, it’s Anderson, _again_. And I bet I know what Ella picked.

“I hate that one,” she complained, as they stepped within the story pages. “The home of the Winds is scary.”

“I don’t know; I rather like those boys,” River answered, a fond smile on her face. “That North Wind talks big, but he’s really no match for a gun.”

She left the children playing in Paradise, strolling aimlessly through the rest of Anderson’s fairy tales. Waved a cheery hello to the Snow Queen, gave a respectful nod to the Marsh King, and ran a gentle hand over the downy head of the Ugly Duckling before finding herself beneath the waves, watching the Sea Witch standing over a bubbling cauldron, stirring around and around and around. River watched her, idly counting under her breath. Clockwise four turns; counter-clockwise the same amount. A pulse beat of rest, then clockwise again.

“I’m curious,” River asked, striding forward into the Witch’s line of sight. “I know it’s part of the story; but how do you manage to keep a fire lit here? Isn’t it a bit too wet?”

The Witch didn’t turn around, and River found herself wanting to needle her, just a little. 

“I suppose you’re a witch, though. Must be no problem for you to do impossible things. Make wood burn underwater? No problem. Keep the cauldron contents from floating away? Elementary, of course.

“Or maybe… you’re not doing something magical after all. Are you making yourself something for tea?” she wondered aloud, her eyes on the Witch’s scowling profile. “What _do_ Sea Witches eat? Ships and shoes and naughty little mermaids?”

It was ridiculous of her to taunt a storybook character, but sometimes, River couldn’t help herself. Josh and Ella had never really existed; and therefore their minds were blank slates for whatever roles they played. And the other adults here in the Library just didn’t remember like she did. After that period of initial fascination they’d all had when first arriving, adventuring through any era, any book… they’d all forgotten. Paired off, mired themselves down into a replica of their outside lives. Homes and families and children and work, with occasional visits from their charming friend Professor Song to liven up their normal existences.

Maybe it was her genetics, River mused. Maybe, if she’d been ordinary like them, she’d have been happy here too. She’d have found herself some perfect façade of a man, have settled down and forgotten everything about River Song beyond occasionally rereading from a worn blue book, smiling at the fantastic adventures of a woman who shared her name.

But she _was_ different. She could taste the falseness in each story she participated in; and she remembered, everything. She remembered a world outside of here; where except for a handful of fixed points every decision could make a difference, change a person or a world or an era. She remembered a world of running and explosions and danger and wonder.

And she remembered a hand in hers and a bowtie looped over her knuckles, eight heartbeats in counterpoint and his lips on hers.

She never forgot; and she wondered, for one moment, whether he had. 

The Witch laughed suddenly, turning to face River.

“What a funny girl you are,” she rasped, reaching out to touch River’s cheek. “So many funny thoughts in that pretty little head of yours. Quite delicious.”

“Touch me again,” River said pleasantly, ducking away from the wrinkled hand, “and you’ll have some new flavouring thrown, screaming, into your pot. And I promise; it won’t be me.”

“Funny and full of life, too.” Dark eyes glistened within folds of flesh, eyeing River up and down. “It’s been ages since I’ve seen such spark and snap.” 

“Sorry; you seem to have mistaken me for a girl easily persuaded by flattery. I’m still not getting in your soup.”

“Too much to live for, heh? Too much joy in your life? You never want,” the Witch cackled, “to end it all? All your misery and unhappiness and uncertainty…”

River shook her head, rolling her eyes; but there must have been something on her face, writ large enough to be as loud as if she’d shouted.

“Ah,” the Witch crowed triumphantly. “You do. There’s something you’re craving, my girl. Isn’t there? Tell the truth now, the Sea Witch always knows.”

“I do hate,” River sighed, pointedly looking away, “people who talk about themselves in the third person.”

The Witch gave a little chuckle, a sly smirk in River’s direction before ambling over to her shelves. There were glass jars there, so dark with dust and grime that it was impossible to see the contents; and she peered at them, leaning close to select a few while muttering to herself.

“It’s not soup I’m making,” she said more clearly, pouring a few drops of an amber liquid into the cauldron, letting something fall out of another jar with a loud plop before it sank to the bottom. “I’m making a potion, a special potion for a special person who I knew was coming to ask for my help.

“What if,” the Witch continued, her voice turning soft and hypnotic, “I could give you what you want? Do you believe that I could, girl?”

“My name isn’t _girl_ ,” River couldn’t resist saying, tucking her thumbs into belt loops and leaning back to eye the Witch suspiciously.

“Well, you haven’t given me your name.”

“And I don’t plan to. I know,” River smirked, “the way of fairy tales. Names are power.”

“Some names more than others.”

“How _nice_ to find someone to argue semantics with at the bottom of an ocean.”

“The bottom of the ocean is where you’ll stay, girl. Unless you want my help?

“Because I can help,” the Witch insisted. “I can see what you want. I can see _who_ you want. Your handsome Prince, the one you saved? You want him to remember you. You want him to love you enough to save you from your simple boring life.”

Her words, delivered in a hoarse rasp echoed around the chamber; and for just an instant, River closed her eyes. Remembered a leggy, lanky frame in a blue suit and trainers, dark eyes full of suspicion and tears.

“He’s no prince,” she muttered, eyes still squeezed shut.

“But you want him to remember you, no? You want him to save you, like you saved him?”

She _had_ saved him; time and time and time again. From danger and death and even from himself.

And this was her reward. Jailed, unable even to pick a lock and escape. Trapped in a database for who knows how long; living without him. Day after lonely day, with each heartbeat giving up the idea that he’d ever really loved her –because if he had, could he have knowingly imprisoned her? Again? – and wondering if he’d ever return to save her.

“No,” River said through clenched teeth, opening her eyes defiantly. “I don’t want him to save me. I want to save myself.”

The Witch gave a little chuckle, tipping a final jar into the cauldron before stirring feverishly. 

“Some things are beyond even me.” She leaned close to the bubbling pot, inhaling the pungent fumes rolling out. “But I can give you some help with that Prince of yours.” She filled a vial with a noxious-looking green syrup, rummaged around in her pockets for a silvery circle that glinted in the light. 

“Take these. Drink the potion, and you will have the means to salvation. The mirror will help.”

River looked at the items the Witch had shoved into her hands, eyes narrowed in confusion.

“Somehow,” she said blandly, shaking the vial, “I don’t think my problem here is really not having legs to walk on land. And what’s the catch? There’s always one. You never get something for nothing in a fairy tale.”

The Witch’s eyes glinted as she smiled, displaying a mouthful of yellowing teeth. “Funny and full of life and clever, too? Too clever for your own good, I think.”

“You know me so well,” River murmured absently. “But that doesn’t mean I’m not correct.”

There was something in the Witch’s eyes, something that might be frightening and dangerous for someone _other_ than River. But she could feel her hearts begin to beat faster in response, adrenaline flowing in her veins for the first time in seemingly forever, her fingertips and toes tingling with excitement.

“Well?” River demanded, feeling a tiny smile creep across her lips. “I’m sure there are rules to your little… gift.”

“You’re right,” the Witch said softly, still watching her. “There are always rules, aren’t there? So many, too many to even give numbers to. You’ll learn most of them quite quickly, what you can and cannot do.”

“And the price?” River persisted. “You want something from me.”

The Witch licked her lips. “There’s not much of you left, is there? Even that pretty hair of yours doesn’t really exist anymore.

“I’ll make a bargain with you,” she whispered. “A life for a life. If you succeed, learn the rules and play your part; then you can go. And if you don’t… you belong to me. All of you. Your memories. Your soul.”

River frowned. “You want my memories?”

“What good are they doing for you? Are they making you happy here by yourself?” She looked up, an innocent smile on her face and eyes intent on River’s.

“What’s wrong, Melody? Don’t you trust me?”

Any normal person would have backed away. Any normal, sane person would have run, screaming.

_She knows my name,_ River thought suddenly, eyes narrowed as she took in the wrinkled little visage before her. _She knew it all along_.

“You have a deal,” said River calmly, tipping the vial up to her lips. “A life for a life.”

She swallowed quickly before she could think too much; the bitter green syrup threatening to make her cry as it slid down her throat.


	4. Blank Verse

It was a long time before he finally opened the CD, inserted it into the drive on the TARDIS to check the contents. In fact, he’d spent a lot of nights twirling it around on his index finger, trying to make a choice.

Open it, or not? Yes. No. Yes?

The likelihood was that miserable little imp was trying to make a joke. A CD to rescue a Princess? Ha. That little green creature didn’t realise he was trifling with a Time Lord. And the beings of Gallifrey were _not_ for mocking with ridiculous tasks.

Then again… he was the Doctor. Once, he’d practically _lived_ for ridiculous tasks, for impossible possibilities.

And… had he ever backed down from a challenge before?

Yes, open it. No, don’t even think about it. He twirled the CD around, faster and faster until the little plastic edges wore a visible groove into his finger.

Open it, open it, open it…

_Yes._

He popped it into the drive on an impulse, rolling his eyes when he realised there was only one file on it. Encoded and encrypted, the file name a bunch of fragmented nonsensical letters that refused to open no matter what he did; and the Doctor grumbled as his fingers flew over the keys.

“Come on, then,” he muttered. “I’m a genius with computers… so open up already; reveal your secrets.”

There was a tiny beep, and a prompt appeared on the screen.

_Enter your password._

The Doctor blinked in confusion.

“There is no password,” he said, feeling ridiculous for stating the obvious to a computer. “That imp didn’t give me one.”

_Do you require a prompt?_

“Fine,” he grumbled, clicking on the ‘yes’ button. “Prompt me, then.”

_What do you miss most of all?_

He growled in frustration. What did he _miss_? What sort of ridiculous question was that? He missed... he missed _everything_. He’d _lost_ everything. 

“Gallifrey,” he typed quickly, that one word encompassing everything he didn’t want to break down into individual components. Home and family and friends and the life he’d once had. 

_That is incorrect._

“My life,” he typed instead, making a little grimace at the screen.

_Password is comprised of a singular word. One more attempt is allowed. What do you miss most of all_

The Doctor closed his eyes, fighting down the wave of desolation washing through him; and the silence of the TARDIS pressed in around him, making the solitude and loneliness he lived with as a constant companion almost unbearable.

“Laughter.” 

He didn’t even realise he’d spoken out loud for a moment, until the sound of his own voice startled him into a wry smile. Impossible to put into one word everything he lacked. But right now, having the only sounds around him be the whirring of the TARDIS and his own voice made him realise... he might have found the answer.

Time Lords were different, not prone to display such extremes of emotion. They smiled: kindly, thoughtfully, cruelly... but he had to admit, sometimes he’d been rather taken by the childish charm of the human companions he’d had in the past. The sheer amount of noise they made: little _oohs_ of surprise and wonder as they opened their eyes and looked around the Universe for the first time... and their constant laughter, whether out of humour or nervous fear.

Annoying, sometimes. But other times... comforting. Having them on board had meant that when he heard their reassuring clatter, he knew he was never completely alone.

Bemused, he typed in the word; feeling oddly rewarded when the screen opened onto a page of gibberish, effortlessly converting itself into text.

Fifty three eleven, two and five.  
A strand of gold connects  
to the pattern of threads woven in yesterday:  
Fifty seven, twenty eight  
Four and fourteen.   
The gift of life is given twice in benevolence and understanding  
Nourished -fifty one, two- by water of sorrow,   
all the while knowing that lost is not lost.   
To save what would be saved requires redemption  
and final honesty  
with a frame of the Impossible. 

The Doctor sat back, staring blankly. Tapped the screen, gave it an encouraging little whack.

“This is ridiculous,” he muttered. “A ridiculous task to save a princess... and all I’ve got is a little green guide and blank verse to help me?”

He almost missed the button at the bottom of the screen; a blue help button that began to pulsate as if to get his attention.

_Flash. Flash._

He ignored it; and it grew more frantic.

_Flash. Flash. Flash. Flash._

“Alright,” the Doctor growled. “Impatient for a computer, aren’t you?”

He clicked on the button, making sure to toggle the switch to turn on accept audio commands; and turned to face the screen.

“Help me,” he stated, rolling his eyes at the absurdity of the situation.

There was an odd sound, a tinny squeak of interference; and he gave the screen another encouraging whack. Maybe using the hammer would help? But no; a moment later there was a hiccup over the speakers, and then a bland computerised voice.

“Who are you? Please state your identity for the record.”

“I’m the Doctor,” he answered curtly. “I gather that I’m the one you’ve been waiting for?”

There was a long pause; so long he could almost count his heartbeats as he waited.

“Yes,” the computer said finally, crisp and impersonal as only a disembodied automated voice could sound. “I’m sorry for the confusion, Sir. What can I help you with?”

“I’m not a _sir_ , just call me the Doctor. I’ve been told,” he said bitterly, “that I’m supposed to rescue a Princess for my own good... but what I’ve got to do that is a few lines of bad poetry, a little green guide... and apparently _you_ , as some sort of computer help.”

“A Princess.” The computerized voice was flat. “You are to rescue a Princess?”

“Don’t know too much, do you? Yes,” he said with exaggerated calm, “a Princess. Or a lost Lady of the Lake…no, sorry. A Lost Lady of a Pond… but that sounds ridiculous.”

The computer was quiet again, although this time there was an ellipses blinking at the bottom of the monitor, as though it was thinking.

“So.” He sneered at the screen, even though he knew there was nothing there to see him, “help me, then. What am I supposed to do with all this?”

Silence, again. He tapped his foot impatiently, crossed his arms as he leaned back to glare at the computer.

“Let’s try this again, shall we?” Sarcasm dripped from his voice. “Do you want me to rephrase the question? What sort of help are you planning to give me? An explanation? Or maybe a description of the Princess. Make this worth my while.”

The screen wavered, turning a fuzzy grey. “That,” the computer said primly, “is not the sort of help I can give.”

“Useless, the lot of you.”

The grey screen turned red. He wouldn’t have been surprised if sparks flew from the speakers.

“I repeat, that sort of help is not what I’m here for.” Rare to hear a computerized voice sounding angry, but this one was succeeding. “I thought that you’re usually rather quick at figuring out puzzles, Doctor. Or is your clever reputation all a hoax?”

“I’m brilliant at puzzles,” the Doctor boasted. “But this one makes no sense. Talks about numbers and threads and gold. Am I looking for Rumplestiltskin? No, he’s male. Too ugly to be a princess. And even if he was, I don’t think I’d want to rescue him.”

He swore the computer snickered. There was a little stutter of feedback through the speakers that seemed suspiciously like laughter; and he felt his lips quirking slightly upwards into something that felt tight and alien on his face. Once, he used to smile all the time. Before the Time War, before being so alone and so lonely. He’d felt for a little too long that there wasn’t much these days for him to smile about... but still, hearing laughter from a computer lightened his hearts... and the expression on his face now was closer than he had been for a long, long time.

“I doubt that’s who you are looking for.” His computer was back in control, voice serene. “Rumplestiltskin isn’t very good company, anyway. Why don’t you read me the blank verse, though; let’s see if it makes any sense.”

If anything, it was more ridiculous this time around. He read it aloud, rolling his eyes at each sentence, then waited... for some sort of revelation. For some spark of explanation. He was just opening his mouth, ready to demand an answer, when the computer beat him to it.

“Coordinates.”

He blinked. “What?”

“Coordinates.” The computer sounded triumphant, almost smug. Idly, he wondered if it realised how special it was. It was rare, the day that the workings of technology triumphed over the mind of a Time Lord.

“The numbers are coordinates, Doctor. The first set are-“

“England.” He managed to say it first, even as he quickly plugged in the numbers, released the levers and the TARDIS shot out into space.


	5. A Battlefield Stroll

River closed her eyes, pressing her fingers hard against her temples. Really, it was probably mind over matter. A headache was still a headache even if you lacked a physical head to hurt.

“Stupid,” she scolded herself, still clenching her eyes shut to avoid looking at anything. “Stupid, stupid…” 

_Take this_ , the Witch had said, _and you’ll have the means to salvation_.

Would it have killed her to ask a few more questions?

(Possibly. After all, she _was_ a little too much like the Doctor. A definite question means a definite answer; and River did tend to do her best when orientating from a state of grey.)

Still, a little warning might have been nice. A swallow of a bitter green liquid, a single glance into a mirror… and the Witch had faded away, her underwater lair becoming instead a room that River knew well; quite well, in fact.

Her bedroom on the TARDIS.

It hurt too much to wander, to see if it was a perfect recreation. She didn’t _want_ to know if there were bowties nestled among her ammunition, tweeds shoulder-to-shoulder with evening gowns. Couldn’t bear to lie down and see if the sheets smelled of him; or if, even worse they’d smell of nothing at all.

She perched instead in an armchair, the mirror balanced on her lap as it reflected patches of grey and purple and blue, like waves of swirling smoke. Until it cleared and she saw… not herself.

Him.

River gasped and leaned over, her breath fogging up the surface of the mirror until she brushed it away with a quick swipe of her hand. It was him, the Doctor… but not _her_ Doctor. No floppy hair or endearing smile and prominent chin.

Ears, instead. She stifled a giggle, tracing his image with the tip of one shaking finger. He’d traded that ridiculous chin she’d been so fond of for even more ridiculous ears, his smile for a scowl. But his eyes were still the same. Ancient… but oh, so tired. She could read his age in them… the hurt and unhappiness, the hint of self-destruction that lurked just below the surface.

Which him, then? River sucked in her breath, counting on her fingers just to be sure. The old man. The clown. The hims with all the hair… celery man, the magician and Mr Frock Coat. She nodded, decisively. She knew who she was facing, now. His 9th regeneration, fresh from the Time War. Lashing out, simply because he could. A man who was bitter and hurt and full of nightmares.

_And_ , she mused as they talked, as her mind quickly puzzled through the poem he’d told her, _just a bit unpleasant_. She’d thought the 11th Doctor was hard work young… but this particular regeneration… oh, he was enough to drive her mad; and not in a good way.

* * *

Coordinates only let you travel in space. Ideally, you should have some sort of sense of timing as well... and embarrassingly for a Time Lord, he’d always been a bit _deficient_ in that area. (He’d never admit that, of course. It was always better to make people that that his habitual lateness was merely a quirk of eccentricity.)

So he was in England. It could have been the wrong century... but clearly, it wasn’t. As soon as he opened the TARDIS doors, he spotted it. Wrapped only in a silky cloak of its own green hair, a knowing smirk on its face was his imp.

“Took you long enough to figure out the clues. Did you need some _help_?” Large black eyes glittered up at him, unnatural orbs of polished obsidian so clear that he could almost see his reflection in them.

“Why would I need help?” The Doctor sauntered casually outside, looking down to survey the imp.

“Even the best and brightest can only get by with a little help from their friends,” the imp said sagely, nodding its head.

“Funny,” said the Doctor, fixing it with a suspicious look. “Wouldn’t have figured you for a Beatles fan.”

The imp shrugged with a peculiarly boneless grace. “They get around, Doctor. So do I.”

It could only have been moments they were standing there, but suddenly the Doctor realised that the air was heavy with a smell impossible to mistake. Fire and blood and death; and he wrinkled his nose in disgust.

“Can I just say how nice it is, that you’ve given me coordinates for a battlefield?” he asked sarcastically, trying without much hope to avert his eyes from the bodies he could see lying on the ground ahead of them, to shut his ears from the agonized groans of the wounded and barely living.

“Maybe war follows you?” the imp asked, staring up at him. “Or maybe, because you needed to come here. There’s something you have to do. Or see. Or…find?”

“A lost Princess on a battlefield?”

“No. She’s not here. And these are really just the outskirts, if that makes you feel better?”

“Thanks, but no. Why am I here again?”

The imp let out an exaggerated sigh, before turning to walk away, beckoning with one imperiously crooked finger for the Doctor to follow. 

“Brains work slower after nine hundred years, don’t they? Stop complaining and walk. You’re here, Doctor, because you need to be.”

He followed the imp, skirting the figures on the ground and keeping his eyes glued to the sway of hair, memorizing the shape of its head and small shoulders to distract himself from what was around them.

“Why do humans always have war?” the Doctor asked, half to himself. “Why is everyone so set on death and killing? What purpose does it serve?”

“What purpose did the Time Lords have?” the imp countered. “Your lot weren’t exactly immune to destruction.”

“It wasn’t their… our fault. It was the Daleks,” he said bitterly. “They forced us into it.”

“Did they?”

“Yes,” the Doctor said vehemently. “The Time Lords wouldn’t have gotten involved… they shouldn’t have, at least. We were peaceful! All we wanted was to protect the galaxy. To preserve it against those who tried to destroy what had been.”

“The mighty protectors, hmm?” The imp turned to give him a knowing look. “I think that even in those mighty, peaceful protectors, there might have been just a hint of selfishness and bloodlust. Humans are a descendant of Time Lords, aren’t they?”

“A very distant one.” He sounded disdainful and priggish, even to himself. “They might resemble us in stature, but their minds… devolved. We were far more advanced.”

“How kind of you to say that!”

“You’re trying to bait me into something,” the Doctor snapped. “Whatever it is, I don’t agree. There’s no reason for war. There is always another answer.”

“Genocide?” The imp’s answer was quick and cutting, despite the softness of its voice. The Doctor flinched.

“If I had it all to do over…”

“Yes?”

“Never mind. You can’t change your past. It doesn’t matter what I might have done. Or might have tried. Who I might have saved.”

There was something on the imp’s face. A gloating satisfaction in its smirk contrasting with an unexpected softness of those glittering black eyes.

“Well, there’s someone here in this war who needs saving.”

“I thought,” he said bitterly, “that you persuaded me into all this for some lost Princess who isn’t actually here?”

“Did I say she was the only one worth saving?”

There was a gasp from a person a few yards away, a particularly loud one that caught his attention; and when the Doctor looked over he saw a lean figure in dark clothes, tight black hat pulled down on their head from which a few wisps of blond curls escaped. One hand was pressed to his mouth, trying to hold down disgust or fear –the Doctor wasn’t sure which- as with the other, he systematically turned the corpses on the ground, scrutinizing each face for recognition before turning to the next.

“That’s who you’ve summoned me to help?” the Doctor asked, turning back toward the imp. “A ninja?”

There was a long pause as the imp looked like it was listening to an internal dialogue, almost arguing with itself. And then, pale green lips twisted into a smirk, large black eyes stared unblinkingly at the Doctor.

“Sounds about right. Thought you’d love that.”


	6. How to Help a Ninja

She used to love her bedroom on the TARDIS. It was _hers_ -well, hers and his- and the first place she’d ever had in her life that was. (At least, if you didn’t count her cell in Stormcage.)

But there was something prison-like about it now. River stood up, pacing in circles around the bed and trying to fight down her feelings of panic. Whenever she’d felt like this in Stormcage, she’d run. Found consolation through doing something, anything… But here, there was nowhere to go. Nothing she could do or even say, because after the Doctor had walked out the TARDIS her voice had stopped working.

At least she could see what was going on. Her fingers curled around the edges of the mirror, as she watched what was unfolding before her in a distorted point of vision half her size, as though seeing through a child’s eyes. The Doctor; his sadness and desperation and self-loathing written across his face as he condemned death and war. She watched as he strode toward a lithe, slender figure in black on a battlefield, his head held high as each footstep squelched through muck and blood.

* * *

“Do you need help,” the Doctor started to ask, when the ninja gave a decidedly high-pitched yelp.

“Sorry,” he stammered in a lower voice, accent deep and rather determinately that of an English peasant. “You surprised me. I’m only here looking for someone.”

“Well, I hardly thought you’d be out for fun,” the Doctor said sarcastically. The ninja frowned at him.

“Who are you?” he demanded. “Which side are you for?”

“I’m…” the Doctor sighed. “I’m not part of your war.”

“But you’re here, so you must be.”

“I’m not,” he insisted. “I’m just…passing through. I’m not part of your war, I’m not part of any war…”

The ninja gave him an appraising look, one far too shrewd for an ordinary English peasant. The Doctor looked back at him, taking in the sharp nose and stubborn set of his chin that gave him character and the slanted grey eyes fringed in long, curling lashes the same dark gold as his hair. It was a strong face in total, strong and determined, rather than attractive.

“The look in your eyes says otherwise,” he said flatly. “The look in your eyes says you’ve seen much bloodshed. Are you denying that?”

No, definitely not some ordinary English peasant. There was something about him…some quality to his speech and bearing. It might have just been his utter calm, surrounded by death and destruction; or it might have been something else entirely. The way he looked at the Doctor, as though nothing would surprise him.

“Alright,” the Doctor agreed. “I won’t insult you by pretending. I was part of a war… but not this one. It was a different one, far away from here.”

The ninja shrugged, walking toward the next figures on the ground to check them. “I’ve lived through wars my whole life. Aren’t they always the same? Lineage and hurt feelings, leading to blood and death?”

Wars for his whole life… he couldn’t have been more than sixteen; a mere baby to a Time Lord, but certainly old enough for what the Doctor suspected this era was. 1470s, or thereabout. He seemed to have landed in the middle of the War of the Roses.

“They preserve the old order,” suggested the Doctor without any enthusiasm for their conversation. “Or make the way to something new.”

The ninja squinted up at him, from where he was struggling to turn over a body lying on the ground. “I can’t tell,” he said, “from your speech whether you are from the House of Lancaster or York. An adherent of the King or the usurper?”

“And I can’t tell,” the Doctor retorted, even as he leaned over to help, “what you are. You sound like an ordinary English peasant in the late 1400s when you remember you should… but you move like a dancing master and speak like the educated nobility.”

The ninja snorted. “It doesn’t matter what I am, only what I choose to do from here until the end of days.”

“Scratch that,” muttered the Doctor, “you talk like a philosopher. And I should mention, it doesn’t matter to me what you are. I was just curious.”

“So then, what are you? Rather; who are you?”

“Someone else, weary of war. You can call me the Doctor.”

 

“And you can call me,” the ninja paused, “Rory.”

The Doctor frowned. “That’s not a common name around here.”

“I flatter myself that I am not common. There has been a Rory in our family for every generation, and my lineage harkens back to a King of the Celts.” There was unmistakable pride in his voice before he frowned. “It is normally the name for the eldest son, but when my brother…”

Rory turned away, making a show of checking the next bodies and the Doctor knelt beside him.

“Another war?”

“Merely a skirmish. But he didn’t come back, and so I am the only child left. Even my parents are gone now.”

“It’s lonely, isn’t it?” the Doctor murmured. “Being the last.” 

Rory straightened up, giving him a regal look.

“It’s freeing. I can be who I choose, even change my name if I wish. I can define myself now, I will not be lonely... and I do mourn, knowing that my family are forever gone, but life is for moving forward, is it not? And I know,” Rory paused, biting his lip, “rather, I have hope that despite how bad things seem, I haven’t lost everything…”

The Doctor stared at him, seeing steel in the bottom of those grey eyes before he managed an admiring smile.

“You’re a survivor, aren’t you?”

“What are your other choices, Doctor, when you are the only one left?”

What were the other choices, indeed? The Doctor followed Rory, turning each body to peer into their face. It was messy work, bloody and gruesome.

Gallifrey couldn’t have been like this, the Doctor thought, during the last days. Or, very likely it had been. He hadn’t been on the ground, hadn’t seen the ordinary people and victims. It was easy to ignore the casualty counts where there weren’t faces involved… and to think that once upon a time, he’d travelled the universe, averted wars on countless other planets, saved whole civilizations; but when it came to his own…

He wished he’d been able to save them. He wished that he could have saved at least one.

Rory gasped, and the Doctor stopped wallowing in his own thoughts, looking sharply up at him.

“It’s him,” Rory whispered, kneeling beside the body of a young man. “I’ve found him. And he’s… alive?”

The Doctor ran his sonic over him, scanning. “Unconscious, but definitely alive. Breathing, check. Leg wound; I’ll bind that up for him. Internal bleeding, too…possibly a concussion to round things off. Lucky for him, his skull seems rather thick.”

Rory didn’t respond; he was too busy cradling the man’s face between his hands.

“Anthony? Can you hear me? Can you wake up? It’s me. Please wake up…please?”

The Doctor found he was holding his breath. Why exactly, he wasn’t sure… he knew that Anthony was all right. (All right was an overstatement. He was alive, at least.)

But the Doctor found himself kneeling across from Rory, holding Anthony’s other hand. Silently willing him to open his eyes…to say anything…

“It’s getting dark,” the imp said softly from where it was standing by Anthony’s feet. “And he won’t last the night, in case you’re wondering.”

“I wondered where you’d gotten to,” the Doctor said. “Seems I turned around and you were gone.”

Rory looked up at him. “What are you talking about? I’m right here.”

“I wasn’t talking to you, of course I know you’re here. I was talking to…”

The imp was grinning at him, small, sharp white teeth glittering against green lips.

“Can’t see you, can he?”

“No,” the imp agreed.

“Looks like I’m talking to myself?”

“Let’s be fair, Doctor. You do have a history of that sort of behaviour.”

He bit back a snarl, then turned to Rory.

“Look, I can treat Anthony. Fix his wounds, give him something for the pain. But I can’t do it here; need the sick bay in my ship. Don’t worry, its close by… and then I’ll give you a lift home. Or wherever you decide to call home in the future.”

“Your ship?” Rory looked confused. “But we’re miles from the water.”

“Oh?” the Doctor said noncommittally. “Just as well, she’s not really sea-worthy. Like a cat, doesn’t like water too much.” He reached over to pick Anthony up, staggering a little under his weight. “Heavier than he looks, isn’t he? We’re going this way. Come along, Rory.”

He pushed at the TARDIS doors, grateful when they opened without an issue and walked in to lay Anthony flat on the ground. Rory followed him, eyes darting every which way around the room but not saying a word.

“Go on,” the Doctor prompted. “Say it.”

“What are you going to do for Anthony?”

“Ah.” His smile faded. “Not what I was expecting. Hold on, I’ll need…”

The computer spoke, almost as though it had been waiting for him.

“There are supplies in the medical bay for splints and bandages. There are painkillers in the drawer beneath the stabilizers.”

“The _what_?”

The computer made a sound suspiciously like a sigh. “The blue buttons you never use.”

“Ah, those. Thanks. You’re being very helpful. Much better than earlier.”

The sound that came through the speakers just then was definitely a sigh. The Doctor ignored it as he pushed a hypodermic needle into Anthony’s arm, and began to clean and bandage his wound. The internal bleeding was more problematic; but happily, the technology he had on the TARDIS –and especially after the Time War– was far superior to anything Earth had from that time, or indeed would have for many more centuries.

“There,” the Doctor said, scanning Anthony one more time. “Healed. Almost. Try not to let him get his brain scrambled again. That sort of thing is hard to fix twice in a row.”

Rory was watching him with wide eyes, one hand still clinging to Anthony’s.

“He’s alright?” he asked. “You say it…just like that? He’s fine?”

“Of course I say it like that,” the Doctor answered. “What do you want me to do, throw you two a party and write it in the sky?”

“I think she was asking for more details,” the computer interrupted in its clipped mechanical voice.

“He,” the Doctor corrected absently.

“She,” insisted the computer.

“She,” Rory agreed, pulling off her hat and letting a mass of long blond curls spill out. A few strands clung to the wool, and she impatiently moved her head to free herself. 

“You didn’t say you were a she,” the Doctor said, his mouth gaping as he eyed her up and down. He would have died before admitting that yes, once he looked she was clearly a she; and though her features were still strong and regal, that wealth of golden curls did certainly give her a girlish appeal.

“And how,” he complained, realising that perhaps he needed a reason for why he was staring at her hair, “did you get all that under there? Is that hat bigger on the inside or something?”

“I doubt you asked,” the computer said. Hard to tell; but he thought he sensed some rather smug amusement in its voice. “And jammed on tight enough, you can certainly fit that sort of hair underneath a hat. I would know.”

“You’re a computer,” he snapped. “What would you know?”

“Enough…at least enough to register if someone is male or female. Unlike you, apparently.”

“Shut it, you mouthy machine.”

“You first, my dear unobservant Doctor.”

“I’m not certain of what is going on here,” interrupted Rory, eyes scanning from right to left calmly, “or who that other voice belongs to? But it is correct… you never asked if I was a woman. Would you have refused your help, if you’d known?”

“I might not have,” said the Doctor, almost sullenly. “Alright. No. I wouldn’t have. But maybe you tell me something? Who _are_ you, and who is he, and why were you looking for him?”

“I _was_ Elizabeth,” Rory said. “I’ve told you, I choose to be called Rory now. I am the last one of my family; and that name was important to us so I will assume it. Anthony is my husband, and when he left on campaign the last time, I…” she paused, a faint blush stealing over her cheeks. “I have lost my entire family and everything that I once held dear. I refused to lose him as well.”

“So you followed your husband into war,” asked the Doctor. “You? A girl who -now that you’re not being so careful of your speech- is obviously educated, gently born and probably can’t even defend herself? Didn’t even think of danger to yourself, rushed right in… why, exactly?”

Her blush intensified. “I love him.”

“You love him.” The tone of his voice made that entire sentiment sound disdainful. “How is love a reason to do anything?”

Rory gave the Doctor a steady look, the rosy flush on her cheeks fading to make her look –if possible- even stronger and more serious than she’d seemed before.

“If you love someone, what _wouldn’t_ you do?”

He found, suddenly, that he couldn’t breathe. What a simple statement to make him speechless… make his hearts race and brain start computing overtime. 

For some reason, he thought of Susan. Of seeing her the last time, locking the TARDIS doors behind her to give her the chance of the life she’d never have if she stayed with him. He thought of all his companions and assistants through the years, each and every one. How he’d felt about them, and what they’d felt for him… 

“Humans,” he muttered, walking away from Rory. “You’re all so…why do you have to be so…”

“Because they are.” The computer’s voice was very soft, as though speaking only to him. “Capable of great feats for love. Everyone is.”

“I’m not. But then I’m not human.”

“You are.”

“I said,” the Doctor muttered a little louder, “that I’m not human.”

“And I agree. But you’re still capable of great things for love.”

He grumbled. “How would you know?”

“Because…” The computer’s voice went even softer. “Because once there were stories of a man, just like you are now. One who thought the world was better off without him. And he was wrong. He did amazing things for the places and people he loved.”

“Pity I’m not him, then.”

He’d almost expected a snappy comeback from the computer. A _no you’re not_ or a conciliatory _you could be_. But there was nothing; and in a way, he wasn’t surprised.

“So,” he said turning to Rory, “where are you two off to, then? Family home you’d like to go back to? I can get you there.

“Or I can bring you somewhere different. New name…want a fresh start also? Different country? Different time, away from war?”

Rory paused, biting her lip and thinking hard. “I don’t understand what you mean about a different time… but we’re English. We stay here. I’m not against a different part than where we left, though.”

The Doctor pulled up a map of England on the monitor, considering where to leave them.

“Alright,” he said finally. “Found you a nice little place there. Countryside. Very picturesque. You can try living the quiet life, stay out of trouble, find some peace… Might be nice, at that. 

“I think,” he murmured to himself, “I could even envy you if you do.”


	7. Conversational Skills

He went quiet after leaving Anthony and Rory, not even talking or humming to himself while he tinkered around with the TARDIS; and the silence was driving River _mad_. She’d tried talking to him, asking where he’d left them. She tried asking if he wanted help with the next part of the poem, if he was ready for the next set of coordinates… but he acted as though he couldn’t hear her.

Frustrated, she slapped her hand against the mirror. It was bad enough that she had sacrificed herself to save the Doctor, and for her pains found herself locked away in a database. It was worse still, that she was now reduced to communicating electronically with an earlier version of her husband who didn’t know her.

But then to just be hanging around like a ghost, with him not even acknowledging her presence or responding when she talked?

No. Not right, not at all.

It wasn’t difficult to move around in the world of the Library, and especially not for her. Have a destination in mind, a little focus… and River stepped out of her bedroom and back beneath the waves to stand face-to-face with the Sea Witch.

“I think,” River said in a calm voice, “that you have some explaining to do.”

“Do I?” The Witch sounded amused. “I’m sure I don’t know what you mean.”

“And I’m sure you do!” Her temper frayed and patience in tatters, River held out the little mirror to the Witch. Funny how she’d always been such a steady shot with a gun, but with this her fingers trembled until she was afraid she’d drop it.

“What is this? What have you done to me?”

“I’ve offered salvation.”

River narrowed her eyes. “You’ve offered the Doctor the chance to save a Pond Lady, who he persists in calling a Princess. But you’ve offered me….what? The chance to watch him? To be unable to do anything to help him? I can’t talk to him when he’s outside the TARDIS, and now he acts like he can’t hear me inside, either. And I can see him; but he never even sees me, not at all.”

There was a look of brusque pity on the Witch’s face. “He’s never been too good at hearing or seeing what he doesn’t expect. I wouldn’t take that to heart.”

She did though; and it hurt all the same.

“The fact remains,” River said, “that I don’t know what you expect. The Doctor has his mission to interpret a poem and save… me, I suppose. But I don’t know what my role is in all this.”

The Witch gave her an intent look. “What was your role with the Doctor? In the past?”

“I…” River hesitated. “We ran. We did things, had adventures. We saved people.”

“And you saved him.”

The more common knowledge was that she’d killed him; but River nodded. 

“I did. In the past.”

“Past, future.” The Witch cackled. “I always get those mixed up.” She turned serious again, reaching out to lay a shrivelled hand on River’s cheek.

“Your role is what it’s always been, Melody, when it concerns the Doctor. Just remember: there are rules to what you can and cannot do here…”

And then River blinked. She must have; because one moment she was in the Witch’s lair, and the next she was back in her bedroom, staring blankly at nothing.

“Stupid,” she mumbled, fishing the mirror out of her pocket to check on the Doctor, still at the console and watching layers of code dance across the monitor. Rory’s hat was next to him; she must have forgotten to take it back when she left. “That was supremely unhelpful, you…witch.”

_One more time_ , River thought. One more try, to get him to talk to her.

“Earth to the Doctor,” she called, trying to sound cheerful. “Come in, Doctor!”

He ignored her; but she was suddenly certain that he could hear her. _There are rules_ , the Sea Witch had said. _You will discover what you can, and cannot do._

Clearly; high up on the ‘cannot’ list was making the Doctor talk when he wasn’t willing. Which was frustrating because he’d always talked, even that last time when he hadn’t known or trusted her. He explained himself, he barked orders or made unreasonable requests, he mumbled about having a plan even when she knew he didn’t; and in his quieter moments, he told stories or whispered jokes to make her laugh.

But, River reminded herself as she watched the defeated slump of his shoulders and his scowling profile, he’s not that man, is he? He was still the Doctor -he’d always be the Doctor- but he   
wasn’t _her_ Doctor. Not yet.

She brushed her fingers against the mirror, wishing she could reach right inside and pinch him. Make him talk. Or that she was able to touch the console and make it do something, anything…

The time rotor started to move; and River froze. Had she done…was that in response to…? 

No; maybe there was a simpler explanation? There had always been a connection between her and the TARDIS. Perhaps death didn’t matter with a link like they had; and the fact that she was in a computerized exile only helped.

In the console room, the Doctor was similarly frozen before he grabbed the monitor, grumbling in frustration about how he hated it when she took off like that with no warning.

“Don’t even know where I’m going,” he muttered. “It’s like she has a mind of her own.”

“She does,” River answered, happy she had an explanation for that at least. “She’s always done.”

“You sound like you know the inner workings of my ship. She’s my TARDIS...supposed to do what I say! And not take off for no reason.”

He was responding to her again; and River gave a small appreciative sigh, mentally thanking his old girl for being on her side.

“I think,” she murmured, “you’ll find that she does what she pleases. Much like her Time Lord.”

He gave a wordless grunt as he fiddled with the controls.

“And,” River continued, well aware that she was baiting him, “I do understand of the inner workings of the TARDIS. I rather think that I might be more of an expert in those matters than you.”

She couldn’t quite understand his frustrated mumbles, but she caught enough words. Something about ridiculous machines and how he hated their complicity… and then the entire TARDIS fell silent. The engines shut off, the lights dimmed…

“No!” the Doctor yelled, smacking his hand against the console. “First you take off without warning, then you break down in the middle of nowhere?”

“Wouldn’t you,” asked River, “if you were the one being insulted and called ridiculous?”

“Fine, take her side.”

“Always.”

He looked up, suspiciously. “What was that?”

“Oh,” she lied. “Nothing. I have an affinity for machines such as this one, that’s all. You might try reconnecting the thermo-dynamic couplings, see if that helps?”

“The couplings,” he bit out tersely, “are fine.”

“So you say. She might think differently.”

“I know,” he groused, “how to fly my own ship.”

_You really don’t_. But she kept that thought to herself as she watched him fruitlessly waving the sonic, reconnecting wires and even resorting to using the hammer to smack at the console only to produce nothing. He sank down on the floor, not even bothering to maintain his angry grumbling anymore as he glared.

“Well then,” River said brightly, “what do you plan to do with yourself? Are you ready now to take another stab at that poem? See where you’re meant to go next, when the TARDIS is ready to cooperate?”

“No.” His voice was curiously flat. “I don’t feel like running around, saving anyone. And poetry… it’s not my thing.”

He was lying. The Doctor had always rather liked poetry; he was a sucker for any sort of word-play.

“We can have a little chat, then.”

“You think I’ve nothing better to do than talk to a computer?”

“If you’re hanging around in a busted ship, hovering in space? No, I suppose this would be the optimum time for a nice soak in the pool. Spring cleaning? I’m sure the TARDIS manual is around here somewhere. Or do you fancy a game of chess?”

He scowled, he grumbled, he muttered to himself. And then words exploded from him, in a bitter rage.

“What’s the point?” he said angrily. “If you’re so smart, computer, then tell me? What’s the point of the poem, of trying to save someone I don’t even know? What was so special about Rory and Anthony, anyway? What did I accomplish there?”

He was scowling; and River suddenly narrowed her eyes, stroking her finger over his image in her mirror. She couldn’t see his face clearly, but then again, she didn’t have to. The irritation and hurt in him was so obvious… and she remembered, very suddenly when he’d told her long ago about how he was after the Time War. How tied up in knots inside, how unhappy, how very very lost and miserable he’d been and he wasn’t sure he’d ever find a way back to being alive with everyone he knew dead.

“I don’t know,” she admitted. “In a way, Doctor, I’m just as lost with this as you are.”

“Helpful. Thanks.”

A tiny spark of anger lit inside her, as it always did when he was being ridiculous.

“Did it hurt you,” she demanded archly, “to help them?”

There was a long pause, and then a mumbled: “No.”

“Do you think you shouldn’t have helped them? Cured Anthony, helped Rory…“ Saying that name hurt River a little. In that girl she’d seen hints of her Rory, her Dad. The shape of her chin and cheekbones, the long lean figure. 

“I never said that,” the Doctor grumbled. Sometimes, she cursed their timelines. Just that name hurt her; but he was oblivious. 

“I was sent there to do something or find something… and all I found was a stubborn woman who refused to give up on her husband. Who was willing to do something foolish and dangerous, just for him.”

Despite herself, River found herself smiling. “Do you really find nothing to admire in a woman determined to survive and save the person she loves?”

He shrugged, choosing not to answer. But River saw the words he refused to say aloud just in the gentle way he picked up the hat Rory had left behind, the way he folded it reverently and placed it out of harm’s way in the drawer below the stabilizers.


	8. Rith ar nós na gaoithe

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Chapter title is Gaelic, and translates roughly to ‘run like hell’_

With how unreliable she was, sometimes it seemed that he was often in a busted TARDIS… but in the past, it had been him alone, or him-plus-a few companions who didn’t know better.

Being in a busted TARDIS, stranded in the middle of space _and_ having a very odd computer system chiming in like a backseat technician was definitely a first though.

“I’ve told you,” the computer said, clipped electronic tones unctuous, “that the problem is the thermodynamic couplings.”

“And I’ve told you that they’re fine.”

“Hardly. Why won’t you take my advice on this?”

“Because,” he said testily, “you’re wrong, computer.”

A sigh. “My name isn’t computer.”

“You haven’t given me another one,” he muttered. “Doesn’t matter anyway. Because… see?” He wrenched up a handful of zilphed cables, pushing them by force into the cythron sockets. The rotor began to move in a spasmodic, jerky fashion; and the Doctor grinned triumphantly.

“Working. No thanks to you, computer.”

The monitor turned a dark maroon, as though it was flushed with anger; and the Doctor grinned a little more.

“Now, now,” he said, “don’t get your circuits into a twist. Everyone is wrong sometimes…”

“Even you?”

He didn’t answer. Far better to ignore such a question; indeed, even far better to input the next coordinates –Scotland- and leave behind the bitter thoughts the computer had brought up.

Once outside the TARDIS though, he met another annoyance. The imp, arms crossed and one foot tapping impatiently was waiting right beside the doors.

“Ah, look,” said the Doctor, feigning surprise. “It’s my little guide. Fancy seeing you here.”

“Indeed. Fancy you seeing me.”

“Of course I see you. Like a small green bad penny, you are.”

The imp chortled. “Well, that’s friendly.”

“Oh, was it?” The Doctor tilted his head, eyeing his small green companion malevolently. “I meant it to be insulting.”

The imp shook its head, long hair swishing with each shake. “I’m surprised you think you’ve nothing better to do than trade insults with me… You know, Doctor, you’re running a bit late here.”

“Those coordinates have no time stamp. And the TARDIS broke down…not my fault, is it?”

“You are remarkably blasé about time for a Time Lord. You’re here for a reason, remember? There’s someone who needs your help. And no; it’s not your Princess. Not yet.”

He grimaced. “ _Another_ one who isn’t that her? What are you, some sort of walking hotline for lost souls?”

“I found you, didn’t I?” The imp grinned, its small white teeth looking razor-sharp. The Doctor snorted.

“Just because you’re on some help-the-helpless kick doesn’t mean I have to be.”

“Doesn’t it?” the imp asked distractedly. “I thought that was the point of you, Doctor? To make things better.”

“I’m a Time Lord,” the Doctor stated in a flat voice. “We watch. We don’t interfere. Not to save anybody.”

 _Nor_ , he continued in his mind, _even to save themselves_.

The imp giggled, a burbling little laugh that made him grit his teeth. “Are you sure you’re a proper Time Lord, then? Maybe you’re just defective.”

There was no time to say anything, no time even for the Doctor to snap that this conversation was taking a ridiculous turn; because suddenly the imp stopped, tilted its head to the side as though listening and sniffed the air.

“Over there,” it commanded. One small finger pointed to the trees, to a shape twisted on itself and nearly hidden by the roots. “That’s who you have to help.”

“There’s nothing there,” the Doctor muttered, taking a step closer and crouching down, squinting as he tried to see if there was anything human on the ground. All he could see was a shape, black and white… until his eyes focused and he realised it was a person. Pale thin arms wrapped around skinny legs and knobbly knees, a black cloak shielding his form and a dark head of curls that raised abruptly as the Doctor came closer. It was a pinched little face that looked up at him, thin and worried, with wide hazel eyes and freckles across his nose.

“You’re just a boy,” the Doctor said, surprised. At once, a look of injured pride flashed over the child’s face.

“I am not,” he retorted, drawing himself up to his full height, puffing out a skinny chest. The Doctor raised an eyebrow in amusement. Standing, the boy was barely taller than the imp, his voice still warbling between a childish treble and manly tenor.

“You are,” the Doctor insisted. But he softened his tone, seeing the pale tracks of tears through the smudged dirt on the boy’s face, the ragged shreds of pride that made his back straight and his chin held high.

“Who are you then,” he asked. “Don’t you have a home to go to?”

“There’s no one at home,” the boy whispered. His lips trembled, but he continued bravely. “There’s my Mam and my sisters, I mean. But everyone else, they’re here with my Da to fight the MacLaren clan. I’m supposed to be with them. It’s my first battle, to prove I’m worthy of being chief someday. But I don’t want- I mean, I want to be here- but maybe I’m a little…“ He faltered, biting his lip, and the Doctor nodded. Understanding, even without the boy finishing the rest of his sentence what he was thinking.

 _Scared_.

“What’s your name?” he asked. “You must have one.”

“Angus.” The boy hung his head, avoiding the Doctor’s eyes. “It means exceptionally strong. My Mam says I was a fighter even as a babe. So I shouldn’t feel the way I do right now-“

“You have every right to feel as you do,” the Doctor interrupted. There was more that he wanted to say. There was more that he wished he could tell this child… that his instincts were right, there was nothing wonderful and glorious about war… and that he should run away from it, as far and as fast as those skinny legs could go.

“Don’t you think that even the exceptionally strong get scared in war?” he asked instead. “What makes you strong, Angus, is that when something has to be done, no matter if you’re scared or want to run away-“

His brain hiccupped, and he could picture himself back on Gallifrey. The Moment in his hands, the knowledge that he alone could end everything, end suffering, end war, and doom two races to extinction.

“You do what must be done,” he finished, closing his eyes. “That’s what being strong is. That’s what being brave is.”

“Never run away if you’re scared?” Angus asked, still not meeting the Doctor’s eyes.

“I might not say it like that,” the Doctor said slowly, “but that sounds like a good rule to live by.”

Angus nodded, peering shyly up at the Doctor with understanding in those wide hazel eyes. He nodded, once; seeming more like a man than the scared little boy he’d been moments ago; and the Doctor managed to smile.

“Do you know the way back to your father’s camp?” he asked. “If you’d like, I’ll walk you. I’m the Doctor, by the way.”

“Pleased to meet you,” Angus said. “The camp isn’t far, just down that way. And I’d like the company… if you wouldn’t mind.”

There was something about him, this polite brave child that seemed so familiar; but the Doctor shrugged, gesturing for the boy to lead the way. 

“I told Da I felt sick and I needed to be alone,” Angus chattered as they walked. He flushed, bright red patches of colour in his cheeks. “He might have thought I ate something that disagreed with me.”

“I doubt that,” the Doctor mumbled; but he made sure to keep his voice quiet enough that the boy didn’t hear him.

“Anyway, there’s no fighting right now. In the next few days, Da said. So it was safe for me to leave.”

Something about those statements didn’t seem quite true. There was an odd hush as they walked, a cold unfriendly silence that seemed to shroud them, pushing and pulling until the Doctor felt the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end.

“You’re sure?” he asked. “No fighting now? Because something seems like it isn’t right.” He checked his sonic surreptitiously, ignoring Angus’ raised eyebrow. No activity, nothing to read… but still, something didn’t seem right…

And then the world erupted around them. People appearing from the trees behind them, shrill battle cries and blades flashing in deadly silver arcs as they advanced on the Doctor and Angus.

“Could you have gotten the battle times a little wrong?” the Doctor asked sarcastically as he pulled Angus behind him. He caught a flash of movement from the corner of his eye, a raised arm and flash of plaid; and threw his arm up instinctively as a dagger flew past them, earning himself a swift slice through his jacket sleeve and a stab of pain.

“I’m sorry,” Angus babbled. Even without turning to see his face, the Doctor could tell the boy had gone pale, and his voice was bright with fear. “I didn’t know! Da said the next few days, I don’t think we even had a look-out posted… and you’re hurt!”

“I’m fine,” the Doctor snapped. “I’m always fine.” He wasn’t; he could feel blood trickling down his arm, collecting in bright red beads at the end of his sleeve, and his whole arm was shrieking with pain but there was no point in actually announcing those facts.

“Come here,” he said, reaching for the boy with his good hand and feeling cold fingers shaking inside his. “Don’t let go, Angus. It’s up to you to warn your father that the battle is beginning.

“Let’s run.”

And run they did. Fleeing in front of a screaming horde, they ran faster than the Doctor thought he’d ever run in his life, with Angus’ hand damp and sweaty in his, pulling him left or right to warn him they needed to change direction. Neither of them had any breath to waste on words; but if the Doctor had been capable of any speech, he would have congratulated the boy on keeping up. Never faltering, never stumbling… when in fact it was _him_ who stumbled. A rock hidden by a patch of uneven grass – his ankle turned – and down he went.

Instinct made him clutch the boy’s hand tighter before his rational mind forced his fingers to relax. And the last thing he was aware of was Angus’ gasp… and then the pain as his head hit the ground overshadowed even that of his arm as he sank into unconsciousness.

* * *

He woke a few hours later, lying flat on his back besides the TARDIS. Alone… or so he thought until a green face appeared over his; and the Doctor yelped.

“Ah,” the imp said flatly. “You’re back with us, then? I was afraid you were going to sleep the day away.”

“Where is Angus?” the Doctor asked, rolling over until he could push himself into a sitting position, patting down his head, his torso to check for damage. “What happened to the boy? Where is he?”

“With his father, celebrating no doubt. He got back in time to warn them, and thanks to him the McCrimmon clan was victorious. The chief had them patch you up, and said to leave you here, you’d be fine when you woke up.”

“Patched me…?” It was only then that the Doctor noticed the bandage. A scrap of plaid, tied tightly around his arm. “They came to battle with no proper bandages?” he asked incredulously. “Looks like someone ripped a piece off a kilt.”

“They did.” The imp nodded seriously. “That’s a piece off the chief’s very own kilt on your arm. I heard him tell the boy that ordinary linen wouldn’t be enough thanks for your protection. You deserved something special for saving the heir of Jamie McCrimmon.”

The Doctor stared at the imp, blue eyes into stark unblinking black, as he absorbed the most pertinent piece of information.

“Jamie McCrimmon?” he faltered. “The _son_ of Jamie McCrimmon?” The imp tilted its head to the side.

“Maybe,” it said primly, “that bandage would have been better suited on your head? Did you hit it _that_ hard? Or perhaps you’re old and getting deaf?”

He ignored the imp’s taunts, standing up and limping over to the TARDIS before he grinned.

“I knew Jamie,” he admitted. “A long time ago. I knew him; he travelled with me, and his son…

“The boy was brave,” the Doctor said, wonderingly. “Like his father. No matter if he was scared, he couldn’t ever have been anything else.”

“And he could run,” the imp said blandly, surveying him. “It must be nice to save the child of someone you knew, to ensure the survival of that heritage. And it must be even better when that descendant is someone who can keep up with even you.”

The Doctor nodded, fingers absently tracing over the tartan pattern before he stepped into the TARDIS.


	9. A Name Without a Face

“Well?” River asked, directing her words to the Doctor in her glass. “Any luck in Scotland?”

He shrugged, wordlessly; and she bit back her frustration. She knew what had happened, she’d _seen_ it through that disorientingly short view. She knew all about the boy in Scotland, the Doctor injured as they ran, Jamie McCrimmon –no longer the slight, endearing boy she’d heard about, but still charming though stout and middle aged- binding the Doctor’s arm with a scrap of plaid, muttering how it must be him: who else would ‘find’ themselves in the middle of a clan skirmish and travel in a Police Box?

But she couldn’t _do_ anything physical, she couldn’t even talk directly. Everything came from someone else, all the words and actions. It was like being a passenger looking out the window on a bus. Utterly frustrating not to be the one in control, unable to even stretch out her hands to check his pulse as he lay beside the TARDIS, or grab his hand to pull him from danger. 

But he was back inside now, awake and prowling around the console; and River found her voice unlocked. Which was well and good… except he was back to pretending she didn’t exist. Wouldn’t answer her questions, or acknowledge her…

“Right,” River mumbled to herself. He might not be able to see her as… well, as whatever he saw that other form as. But he could hear her… and she’d be damned if he’d not even answer.

“Had a good time, then?” River asked brightly, determined to make him acknowledge her. “Go out for some haggis? Or was this merely a pleasant heather-picking expedition?”

She could see his profile, sharp featured and scowling. Still no answer; and she grinned. Pity for him that she knew him; knew that if she poked just right, needled him enough he wouldn’t be able to prevent himself from shooting back a retort.

“Did you go native, Doctor? I would-” she let her voice dip low, dripping innuendo, “- _love_ to see you in a kilt.”

Still no response. He scowled harder, the tips of his ears turning a delicate pink. River moved in for the kill.

“Oh dear,” she sighed dramatically. “I suppose you’re one of those who wear pants beneath a kilt, aren’t you? For shame, Doctor. That’s not period at all; I thought you knew better…”

The Doctor turned to the screen. “I’m quite period,” he snapped, “if I need to be. And this was not some berry picking-“

“Heather picking,” River corrected cheerfully.

“Whatever!” He glared in indignation at her, and she grinned. He wasn’t as angry as he was pretending to be. And she’d accomplished her task. At least he was talking to her now.

“So what did you do?” she asked in a softer voice. “Dash about, save the world? Grab someone’s hand and whisper ‘run!’?”

He shrugged. “Might have.”

“You don’t change, do you?” River said fondly. ”Always the same Doctor.”

“You speak as if you know me.”

_I do_. She caught herself before she said it. She knew him alright; the light and the dark, his smiles and sullen frowns, his selfishness and selflessness. She knew him... better, perhaps than she knew herself.

“I know of you,” she whispered. “The Doctor. Adventuring in his blue box, saving the world over and over again, jetting back out to the stars before he can hear a thank-you.”

If she hadn’t been looking at him, her eyes greedily absorbing every inch of his face, she might have missed the lost expression, the tightening of his lips and the stern set of his jaw.

“Perhaps you don’t know me as well as you think. I don’t do that sort of thing anymore.” He snorted. “Saving the world… maybe it doesn’t deserve to be saved; have you thought of that?”

She shook her head, amused by his petulance. Nice to see the things that transcended regeneration.

“If you say so,” she said lightly. “Then tell me? If you don’t save the world anymore, what _did_ you do today in Scotland?”

He stared at the screen, face blank before he sighed; and River stayed silent. She’d learned a long time ago that sometimes, the way to manipulate her Doctor into talking was like fishing. Dangle a line, let him come to her, be patient until he took the bait.

Patience. Not a trait River Song normally possessed… but when it came to him…

She waited, holding her breath until he sighed again. Smiled wryly, shook his head.

“I didn’t save the world today,” he muttered, voice gravelly and soft, as though admitting a shameful secret. “It might have been just one boy.” He sounded defiant, and River bit her lip to hide a triumphant smile.

“Sometimes saving one person, Doctor, is as important as saving them all.”

“Is it, though?” He was restless, fingers caressing the levers and buttons on the console. “So I saved Angus. Does it matter? He was just a boy, and I’ve saved him so that he can continue in skirmishes with rival clans, or whatever more pointless days are ahead of him.”

River hesitated. “Is life really that meaningless? Do you think so?”

“I don’t know.” The Doctor sighed, closing his eyes in defeat. “I didn’t think so once. I thought there was something redeemable in every life… but I’m not sure, now.”

She watched as he sat dejectedly on the floor, leaned his head against one of the coral protrusions.

“How good is your life, then?” the Doctor mumbled. “If a computer can have a life. Huh.” He gave a little grunt of amusement. “Listen to me, talking to you as if you were real. I must be lonely.”

She was filled with emotions, teeming up and almost choking her with intensity. Irritation from the gall of him (acting as though a computer-based life form was somehow deficient; when they’d been to the 43rd Century together and seen what that hybrid Android race was like) mixed with pity for how miserable he seemed, and a sharp desire to pinch him and tell him to stop brooding.

“I’m not just a computer,” River said finally.

“No? Of course not.” He sounded snide. “I bet you’ve even got a name, right? Have I been so unbearably rude as to not ask it as yet?”

River couldn’t stand the mocking tone of his voice. “You have. And I do.”

“So then! What is it?”

“My name is,” she started to say, then stopped. She’d forgotten the Sea Witch, the knowing smirk and her warning.

_There are things you can and cannot say here…_

She couldn't tell him her name because he wouldn't know anyway. In his future, River Song would be important. But not yet… 

Funny, but once she’d hated the thought of continuing her life without him having any idea of her, and so she’d sacrificed it all, thinking that at least she’d never have to live through that pain again. But now things had come full circle and she was again facing a Doctor who had no clue.

“You can call me,” River murmured, “Threnody.”

He frowned.

“ _Nice_. What a name, Threnody.”

“What’s wrong with it?”

“Oh, nothing. Don’t know why I expected anything different of you. My mouthy computer program, designed to help me save some lost princess is named for a lament.”

It fit, though. A threnody was a sad song, a lament for what had past. And computer Threnody was only an echo of what River Song had been.

“I don’t mock your name,” River said primly. “ _Doctor_.”

“Guess you don’t.” He sighed. “Threnody, can you tell me with no double talk or ‘I don’t knows’… what am I doing here? Why am I being dragged into saving someone I don’t even know, why do I keep being sent to...”

The Doctor paused, obviously steeling himself for the next words. “I’m sick of this,” he   
admitted in a shamed voice. “ _War_. I’m sick of bloodshed and fighting and death and destruction.”

“I know.”

“No you don’t know; how can you? Feeling like your hands won’t be clean. I’ve the bloodstains of an entire world on me. It’s not just the Time Lords; it’s all the others too. The ones who came to help, the ones who weren’t even involved but still died for the sake of what we were fighting for. I can’t ever fix that, can I?”

She didn’t know what to say for a moment; and River twisted her fingers around each other, watching his face in the mirror. Despair and self-loathing in his eyes, a bitter smirk on his lips. It wasn’t as though she’d never seen him unhappy before. She had; but not like this, when she couldn’t even offer him the comfort of an embrace.

“What do you want to hear, Doctor?” she asked in a soft voice. “The truth? It’ll always hurt to remember what you couldn’t fix. There will be days yet to come for you, when you sit and think of all those you couldn’t save. When you count them up and mourn for the lives that were lost.”

He blinked his eyes hard, keeping back the tears she could see glittering in them. “So what am I doing, then?”

“Maybe,” River said tentatively, “atoning, in the only way you can? You can’t fix the past. But you can change futures… rescue those who need saving.”

“Like that Princess, hmm?” The Doctor raised his head, his smirk still fixed in place. “I can figure out how to save her, whoever she is. I wonder what war she’s trapped in.”

River closed her eyes. “Not every trap has to do with war. Some are bloodless and kind; but even more miserable.”

There was a long pause; and River opened her eyes to see the Doctor staring… it felt like he was looking straight at her, actually seeing her for a moment.

“Tell me about one of them.”

“Tell you about… what?”

“About,” he shrugged, “about a trap that’s not a war. Where everyone is saved at the end, and everyone is happy…”

She stared. “Are you asking me to tell you a story? With a happy ending.”

“What’s wrong with that? Everything is just a story in the end; so tell me a good one. Give me hope that tomorrow I’ll go out and look for that Princess again, and maybe everything will be fine. And maybe one day it’ll stop hurting, all the people I couldn’t save.

“I thought,” he yawned, closing his eyes and snuggling against the coral, “that you’re supposed to be my _help_ in all this? A story would help.”

River snorted. Nice to see the things that transcended regeneration. Her Doctor had always been capable of making ridiculous requests seem reasonable… and, a sucker for a good bedtime story. 

“Did you ever hear the one about a fish named Jim? It’s quite a tale… no pun intended.”

She had the pleasure of seeing his smile, free and unguarded, flit across his face for the first time since all this had begun.


	10. Digital Scheherazade

‘The more things change, the more they stay the same’ is how the old saying goes; and there were times that the Doctor realised that he was as caught in that adage as everyone else.

Because things _should_ have been different. Once he’d been a Time Lord, one of many. He’d borrowed a ship, gone for a little wander of the known and unknown, found himself on thousands of different galaxies and universes with Companions by his side. He’d found adventure and intrigue at every turn, he’d indulged that little instinct inside of him… that little niggling base desire that everyone has deep down, where they long to play the lauded hero.

But then there had been the Time War, and on the surface, it changed everything. He wasn’t one of many, anymore; he was the last… and his jaunts around the Universe smelled suspiciously of running away.

Yet there was a certain sameness for what had been and what was now. Because he still found himself wandering with a Companion –albeit a small green imp instead of a normal pink human- by his side, and still found himself embroiled in adventure and intrigue.

And yes; despite his firm protestations that he didn’t do that anymore –save the day, be a hero– perhaps he did often find himself doing just that. He was there the night Krakatoa exploded, and ruined his favourite jacket pulling people to safety. He spent some time in Southampton at the urging of Threnody (who’d suggested that a nice trip to the seaside might do him some good) and found himself embroiled up with the Daniels’ family, posing as the absent-minded butler who lost the tickets for their ship to America and paid from his own pocket to get them on another that left a few weeks later.

(And when the news of the sink of the Titanic shook the world, and the Daniels’ realised how close their demise had been; there were grateful tears and fervently whispered thank you’s that provided the barest sense of peace in his hearts, just for a moment.)

He wasn’t a hero, the Doctor thought as he stood in a crowd of people cheering and jostling him with knees and elbows in unspeakable places. He couldn’t be, not after Gallifrey; but Threnody’s words echoed in his mind sometimes… that doing what he was doing, saving people. It would never fix things. But maybe, it helped him atone for what he’d destroyed.

Except here, unable to do anything except watch as JFK collapsed, it wasn’t always easy to remember that.

“ _Why_ did you go?” Threnody asked later. For a computer, she could sound remarkably peevish when she was addressing his faults. “It’s a fixed point, Doctor. Nothing you could do.”

He shrugged. “Listen to you, sounding like a nagging wife! Telling me what I should and shouldn’t do…you’ll be reminding me to wipe my feet and put out the trash next.”

There was a loud protest of interference through the speakers that sounded rather like indignant sputtering; and the Doctor hid a grin. He’d learned in the past weeks that he actually had fun annoying Threnody and hearing her responses.

“Maybe,” she hissed, “you don’t need a nagging wife, but a sharp slap sometimes!”

“Ooh, you’re into that; are you?”

For that remark, he was treated to thirty seconds of a high pitched squeal that made him wince and scramble for the volume button.

“Thought maybe I could’ve,” the Doctor admitted, once he’d managed to turn Threnody’s angry wail down and massaged his ears. “I know it’s a fixed point. Not worth tearing the Universe apart...”

But it was intoxicating, in a way. Redeeming himself through saving people. When the Daniels were safe he’d felt his hearts lighten for a moment; and they were only a normal family with normal lives. But imagine how being the one to avert history and save JFK would’ve felt? A high like no other.

“Have you forgotten your Princess?” Threnody asked. There was always a pause, before she used that title. As though she was reluctant to.

“No, I haven’t forgotten her,” he sniped. “Just been busy. She’s holding.”

“She certainly is. Waiting for you to come save her.”

“Is she in danger?” he asked. “What happens if I don’t get there right now?”

There was a very long pause, and then Threnody sighed. 

“Nothing,” she admitted. “Nothing will happen to her. She’ll just keep waiting, that’s all. Losing hope.”

* * *

_Losing hope_ weren’t the right words to use; and River knew that. _Getting exhausted_ would’ve been closer. _Wondering when he’d hurry up, already_.

Yet she couldn’t fault him for the trips he took now, searching for other things to do and people to save (even if they weren’t poem-mandated). For one thing, she was with him on each one. Trotting alongside, looking out from that oddly foreshortened view…though she still couldn’t come to terms with not being able to speak or move. It was difficult; she’d always been so physical that just _watching_ events unfold was misery.

And, too, he talked to her now when he returned to the TARDIS every night; instead of at her like she was a thing. He’d tell her about the people he saw and things he’d done, the places he’d always thought of going and maybe would in the future. In turn, she talked to him as well. Suggested places for him to visit, slipped in little titbits of history or the pointless trivia that she knew he loved.

She hated it –the waiting- but she could be patient. Because every day she saw him become less bitter, less angry; more positive and thoughtful and alive as he shook off the horrors of the Time War. 

He was becoming her Doctor again; and she could wait a little longer to be rescued. No need to abandon hope yet.

“I’m tired,” he murmured suddenly, interrupting her thoughts. She watched as he sank down against the console, pulling his jacket over his torso like a blanket. His face was relaxed, dark spiky eyelashes fluttering closed; and she felt a little surge of love sweep through her at seeing him like that.

“And here I thought Time Lords didn’t need sleep,” teased River, leaving the armchair she usually perched in to climb onto the bed. She pulled a pillow into her arms, resting the mirror on the top…it was a poor substitute for actually having him with her, but the best she could do.

“We don’t need sleep.” He sounded petulant. “But sometimes we like it. That’s very different than _needing_ anything, Threnody.”

She chuckled, wishing -as ever- that she could reach out to stroke a hand over his forehead, press a kiss lightly on his lips. It was times like this that she missed being with him; because in her past and his future, he’d been the same way. Curling up at her side and resting his head on her shoulder, lazily twisting her curls around his fingers and asking: ‘ _tell me again why the locals on Beta 6 think you’re a Goddess? It’s the hair, isn’t it? Must be._ ’

After the running was done and the adventures were solved, he was always like that. Peaceful and snuggly; almost like a drowsy child listening to a bedtime story. She almost had to wonder if that very out-of-characterness she’d always wondered about him had its roots here; her Ninth Doctor listening to Threnody at the end of his day.

“Are you there, Threnody?”

“Always, Doctor.” She made her voice soft and soothing, smiling as he stifled a yawn. “I’m always here when you need me.”

“Nice.” He didn’t sound sarcastic, though. More wondering. As though he’d doubt anyone’s devotion to him.

“Tell me a story? A good one, this time.”

“They’re all good, Doctor.”

He scoffed, with a bit of that attitude she had become so familiar with. “No, they’re not. Sometimes you tell me boring histories.”

The problem was that there were so many things she couldn’t tell him. Any story that had to do with him or his future. Anything that mentioned River Song, especially; because even now, they still lived with spoilers hanging over their heads. The Sea Witch had been right. There were rules –there were always rules- and she couldn’t risk telling him of anything he might recognize in the future, and possibly change.

So she told him fairy tales. The normal ones at first: Sleeping Beauty and Snow White, Pinocchio and Cinderella. And then she’d started telling him the odder ones. The Girl who Trod on a Loaf. The Wild Swans. Jorinda and Joringel- though he’d mocked that one unceasingly. A girl turned into a nightingale and kept in a gilded cage, a boy searching for a magic flower that would turn her back into herself and break the spell… she couldn’t bear to tell him that it bore a certain resemblance to their own situation.

“They are good,” River repeated, brushing her fingers over the pillow and imagining she could feel his skin beneath hers, warm and fragrant. “All stories are.” 

He made a little grunt of disagreement. “There are strange and amazing things out in the Universe, Threnody, and strange and wonderful people that go with them. How’s about you tell a story with them, instead of things with insects crawling on people’s eyes, or making shirts out of nettles…”

“As you wish,” River murmured, unable to resist teasing. She thought for a moment, of what to say.

“Once upon a time,” she began, “there was a Princess with long golden curls locked in a tower. Now, you should know that she wasn’t your normal sort of Princess from the storybooks. You know the type: the slender girls in long pink gowns who drip grace and charm with every gesture, and spend their lives attended by bluebirds and sentient teapots and seamstress mice.”

“Let me guess,” the Doctor interrupted. “ _This_ Princess is the clever, stubborn type. Someone who is wilful and selfish, but occasionally selfless enough to save the people she cares about?”

“Well… something like that. And one day, she did something that might have been brave, and was definitely a bit stupid… but she thought it was for the best. And then she woke up in a tower, and was waiting for her Prince to save her.”

She could see the Doctor’s entire frame tense. But he didn’t open his eyes, didn’t ask any questions; even if River knew he was smart enough to understand, without her having to spell out why she was telling this story.

“Now, if she wasn’t your normal Princess, he most certainly wasn’t your normal Prince. He could be a bit rude and overly dramatic, and sometimes –alright, often– talked too much. But he was clever, and,” she smiled, “ _hot_. And she loved him; and so she waited…”


	11. Passage of Time

Yes; she was waiting for him, and trying to be patient in doing so. Still, it was an itchy feeling, akin to having an uncomfortable tickle between your shoulder blades that you were unable to scratch. The definition of River Song was _doing_ , not talking. That had always been the Doctor’s domain and she’d always felt that she could never match his abilities of persuasion and sheer loquaciousness… and yet it seemed, that’s what she was doing here.

“I’ve been looking for you,” said a small voice, and River looked up to see Charlotte standing uncertainly in the doorway of her bedroom.

“I’ve been right here,” she told her, putting the mirror down and coming over to give the child a hug. It surprised her, the intensity with which Charlotte clung to her. She’d always been so independent before.

“What’s wrong?” River asked, tipping the girl’s face up. “I know something is.”

“It’s nothing. Not really. I just missed you… it seems like everything is confused lately.” Charlotte put her hands up to her temples, small fingers buried in her thick brown hair. “Inside my head, I’m confused. Doctor Moon says I’m fine, but I still feel…bad.” 

She gulped, resting her head against River’s shoulder; and River stroked her hair, trying to figure out what was really wrong. There had been little time between finding out the secret of CAL and the memory transfer to think about it; but since arriving in the Library, River had wondered privately if the Lux’s had really had Charlotte’s best intentions in mind when they created this database. On the surface it sounded wonderful… they had given her the chance to live past her too-brief human lifespan, to read and live in any book or era that had ever or would ever exist.

Except that everything has its time, and everything dies; and occasionally she wondered if, given the choice after so many years, if Charlotte would want to be free. Some blessings are really curses in disguise… and she wondered if anyone ever considered that the little girl with the face and thoughts of a child and the eyes of an old woman might have preferred to know that one day, she too will have an ending. 

“Maybe you’re just a bit lonely,” River said, kissing the top of her head. “How long have I been in this room? Never mind, I know you can’t tell me-“

“It has been eight months, three weeks and two days since I’ve last seen you,” Charlotte said automatically. “By Earth standards.”

River stared at her, mouth falling open in surprise. “You’ve never told me how long I’ve been here before,” she said in a shaky voice. “You’ve always refused.”

“You were always unhappy before,” answered Charlotte in a monotone. “It would have hurt you to know.”

“And I’m not unhappy now?”

Charlotte tilted her head to the side, peering at River with those wise, ancient eyes. “Not completely. I can tell that there’s something inside you now that’s different. As if you have…hope? If that’s the right word.”

“It’s not completely accurate,” River murmured. She glanced into the mirror at the sleeping Doctor, curled up tightly into the foetal position and making little mewling snores. “But I suppose that word is good enough.”

* * *

She felt guilty about abandoning the other residents of the Library, even though she knew that only Charlotte would really appreciate the passage of time and how long she’d been away. Still, shame was a great motivator. So she stopped in to see Miss Evangelista, the Daves and Anita, exclaiming over how their children were growing and how wonderful their lives were. She helped Josh and Ella dress appropriately for a romp in the countryside of Prince Edward Island, smiling at a nearly unfamiliar-looking Charlotte in her puffed sleeves and long red braids. And then -when they pestered that she’d not picked something of her own- they took a trip within the pages of Enid Blyton. There was something almost comforting to find herself playing the part of a naughty schoolgirl again… after all, she had an aptitude for it. Mels had been excellent practice for such a role.

But she felt strange now. The uneasiness she’d always had in the Library -that sense of _wrong wrong wrong_ at being in a place where even the concept of time was irrelevant- felt worse than ever, and she wasn’t sure why. Surreptitiously, she checked the mirror every so often to see if the Doctor still slept or if he was awake, outside the TARDIS and adventuring.

“River,” Charlotte said, interrupting River’s thoughts, “Ella wants to visit the Tin Soldier. Won’t you come with us?”

“I’ll meet you,” River said absently, tucking the mirror back into her pocket. He was awake now, drinking tea and shaving at the same time; and not even thinking that the incompatible nature of those two things could be why he kept nicking himself.

“You won’t.” Charlotte had a fierce pout on her face. “I can tell you’re planning to leave again, aren’t you?”

River reached her hand out to stroke the girl’s hair; but Charlotte ducked away from her, disappearing as she darted within the storybook. With a muffled swear River followed her, emerging not on the toy shelf as she’d expected but in the dark world of the Sea Witch’s lair.

Silly her, becoming more and more like her husband each day. She’d always teased him when he made the excuse that his head was full of stuff after a thousand years, no wonder things got confused…and yet, here she was, making the same mistakes. 

She’d forgotten that the Tin Soldier was another of Anderson’s tales. And if she’d remembered, she might have been more careful about diving into those pages.

“Well,” the Witch said with a little cackle of laughter, rubbing her hands together with an avaricious glee, “look who has come to visit! I’m so pleased to see you, my dear.”

“That makes one of us,” said River. “And I think you’re channelling the wrong story with that thing you’re doing with your hands. I don’t think Anderson conceived that; it’s much more Ebenezer Scrooge than Sea Witch.”

“Oh, I _have_ missed you! That pretty hair and that sense of humour…”

“Yes, that’s me,” River drawled, trying for a sense of bravado. “So much humour that normal hair couldn’t sustain it.”

The Witch laughed in genuine amusement before turning serious, walking slowly and carefully across the room. River fought the urge to step backwards.

“I’m happy to see you,” the Witch said, “because I’m wondering how you’re doing with our little… deal? You haven’t forgotten it, have you?”

“No,” River said, feeling rather snippy. “How could I forget such a thing?”

“Because I expected you to be talking to your Doctor, not running around in here with the children. Have you stopped caring if he saves you?”

“Of course not. But the Doctor…” River sighed. “If you knew him the way I do, you’d know that sometimes you can’t push him.”

“Oh, really?” The Witch raised an eyebrow.

“Really. You can make suggestions, or help him correct things once they’ve gone wrong; but he’s always going to do what he wants, in his own time, and you fit what you need into that.”

“Sounds very selfish of him,” the Witch murmured, taking another step towards River. “Don’t you get frustrated?”

She had, when she was younger. In those days before they really knew each other and had perfected their banter-and-action duo; there had been plenty of angry flare-ups and storming away from each other, bitter words on his part and angry slaps on hers. Falling in love had been quick, learning to trust each other had taken longer; but once they did…

“No,” River said, stubbornly clinging to what she felt. “You take people as they are. Good and bad.”

“You accept him, even now? Faults and all…like he accepted you?”

River bowed her head, remembering him on the shores of Lake Silencio. _You are forgiven; always and completely forgiven_.

“Yes,” she muttered, hoping her voice didn’t waver. When she looked up, the Witch was smiling a very secretive sort of smile.

“How lovely to hear that. Such loyalty and devotion in you… but still, you’re _here_. We had a deal, you and me. A life for a life, I told you. If you learn the rules and play your part…” The Witch tittered, and River rolled her eyes in response.

“You know,” she said conversationally, “if you want to be truly menacing, you should stop that giggle. It doesn’t fit.”

“Now, who said I was menacing?”

“Well, you do make our deal sound like a threat.”

“Do I? Perhaps you’ve misheard me?”

River paused. “No, I think I didn’t. And you didn’t put a timestamp on it; would be hard to do that, here. So I’m doing just fine with the Doctor. He’s gone to two of the places from that poem…”

“Ah, yes. The poem.” Dark eyes glittered at River. “He’s gone, but has he gotten what he needs? And there are more than two places mentioned in there. More miles to go before he sleeps, don’t forget that.”

“I hardly could. But thank you,” River said, channelling the Doctor at his most sarcastic, “for your concern.”

She had turned to go, when the Witch’s whisper caught her.

“You’re wrong, you know.”

River stopped, mid-step. “About?”

“You say you know the Doctor. But how well do you really know his history, and what happens with him at what times in his life? I might not have specified a timestamp, but it’s March 2005 now. Busy time on Earth, especially for those who work at a certain London store…?”  
River spun around in horror, the pieces falling into place.

“But you never said-“

“If you know him so well, why would I need to? The Doctor does things in his own time, yes… but what happens when there is someone else there to share his attention? How much do you think he’ll care about saving someone he doesn’t even know when there are better people to save and a real person to impress, not just a computer to talk to when he’s lonely?

The Witch smiled, reaching her hand out to River. “You’ve seen his future, Melody. Did he ever mention any of this? Do you think that he’ll even remember Threnody in a few years, or wonder why she disappeared…?”

She ran; the Witch’s mocking laughter echoing in her ears as she tried desperately to focus on her bedroom, pulling the mirror out of her pocket and hoping she’d be on time.


	12. A Traitorous Act

She wasn’t.

He’d been running in and out of the TARDIS all day with only mutters of ‘I’m busy, I’ll explain later’ to appease her confusion; but the last time, he dashed in breathless, as though fleeing from screaming villagers.

And, he had a plastic head beneath his arm.

“Doctor?”

“Shut up, Threnody, I’m busy.”

“Building yourself a new boyfriend?” She couldn’t help her sarcasm. He grinned. 

“You know what they say: life in plastic, it’s fantastic!”

River burst out laughing, despite herself. “Try dating one of them. Swappable heads does keep everything fresh.”

“Down, girl! Though, hmm… the Adventures of Plastic Boy and Cyber Girl. I think you can tell me that story later.”

“You didn’t enjoy hearing it the first time around.” And then River clapped her hand over her mouth, mortified.

_Spoilers_. 

Luckily, he didn’t seem to have noticed.

“Doctor,” she said, “Can we be serious for a moment? Because I need to talk to you.”

“Still busy, Threnody. Nestene Consciousness, trying to overtake London.”

She had a sinking feeling in her stomach. “It’s about your Princess. Doctor, you have to listen-“

“And I said, not now!”

The TARDIS doors burst open and a girl ran in. River gasped, feeling like her breath was caught in her chest.

She knew her. Of _course_ she knew her. His description had been very thorough, the TARDIS had pulled up pictures for her; and once –though she’d never told him- she’d gone to Henrik’s to shop and simultaneously catch a glimpse of his Rose Tyler.

But now she had the opportunity to examine her at closer detail. Young, very young and pretty with an air of panicked calm. Surprisingly loyal –considering River knew what would later happen- to her melting boyfriend’s head.

_(Mickey_ , River reminded herself. She knew him too…in his future she would run alongside Mickey and Martha when hunting Sontarans and have quiet evenings at their home; laughing and talking and dandling the baby on her knee, while the Doctor played football in the garden with the older boys.)

But she could only watch now, as the Doctor and Rose whisked away outside the TARDIS, racing along Embankment toward the Eye; leaving her alone with her frustration and anxiety.

* * *

He returned to the TARDIS alone. Shut the door after himself with an air of finality, walked in a complete grump to the console.

“Doctor,” River began, but he wasn’t even listening.

“If I offered you the chance to go anywhere, would you go?”

_With you? Yes. Always_. The temptation to say just that teetered on River’s lips; and she hastily forced the words to stay in.

“I suppose,” she answered instead. “Why do you ask?”

“Because I offered that girl the chance. Rose, she said her name was. Rose Tyler. I offered her the chance to travel with me, and she said…no?” The Doctor looked confused. “I didn’t think I’d ever want anyone else here, but she… she was fantastic back there, she really was. She actually saved _me_.” 

He sounded awed, and River clamped down on that little fission of hurt that had sprung up in her hearts at his words. They’d had a rule, the two of them. No jealousy of past friends and loves; because really, living as long as they had you just couldn’t harbour those types of feelings. So, she wasn’t jealous of what she knew his future to be with Rose.

But perhaps it stung a little. She was far more used to being the one who saved him, the one he talked about with wonder in his eyes and awe in his voice.

“That’s too bad,” River murmured, trying to sound sincere because she knew that very soon, Rose would in fact run away with him. “Did she have a good reason?”

“No time,” grumbled the Doctor. “Responsibilities. For her Mother and that useless boyfriend Ricky.”

“Mickey,” corrected River.

“Whatever. He’s still an idiot.”

He grumpily flicked switches on the console, checked the monitor, and River took a breath to get the courage to say what she wanted to.

“Doctor, I wanted to talk to you earlier? About your Princess.”

“I’m not taking other people on the TARDIS, even if she’s worried about them. Just Rose. I bet she’d like to see the future, she looks like that sort of girl.”

“Doctor,” River said a little louder, “we need to talk about your Princess, and what else it says in the poem.”

“Or maybe,” the Doctor said thoughtfully, “I should invite her out to dinner, as a thank-you. We can go to Venice. There’s a great little restaurant in the Twenty-first Century that makes the best _spaghetti al nero di sepia_ … I bet she’d be adventurous enough to try it…and I’m getting hungry just thinking about it. What do you think, Threnody? Would you go for something like that?”

River groaned. She’d forgotten something else about the Doctor that transcended regeneration: he had an amazing ability to distract people when he didn’t want to do something. It was almost a pity for him that she knew him well enough to avoid being dragged into his tangents.

“I wouldn’t know,” she said stiffly. “I don’t eat.”

“Ah…” He looked embarrassed. “Yes, sorry, forgot about that. Spaghetti would wreak havoc on your circuits.”

“Doctor. The poem?”

“It can wait,” he answered with a shrug.

“It can’t.” She felt like she was pleading with him… no, she was pleading with him. And before her eyes, she actually saw his mood change, from one blink of an eye to the next. He’d been rather forcedly cheerful; and now, suddenly, was almost bristling with rage.

“You said,” he snapped, “that the Princess is holding. Well, she can hold a little longer, can’t she? I wish that you’d be helpful for a change, Threnody, give me some useful information.”

“I’m always helpful!”

“You’re not! Because if you were, you could have told me by now. Who is it that I’m trying to save? And why do _I_ have to do it? Where in the Universe is it written that it has always got to be me?”

Anger came over her, so strong that her vision actually filmed over red for a moment. “Because you’re the Doctor! Because that’s what you do, you save people! And her… you have to save her because- because-“

River stammered, her words abruptly failing. _Because you promised that you’d always be there to catch me. Because you are the reason I’m here. I saved you, but you’ve always saved me in return._

“Because she can’t do it by herself,” she finished lamely. The Doctor made a face.

“That’s not my problem.”

“Isn’t it? I thought,” she faltered, “that you’ve been trying to save people? What have you been doing all this for, if not that? Why are you being so ridiculous now, refusing to help her, refusing to even talk about the poem-”

“I don’t need to talk about it.” His voice was emotionless, and he turned away from the monitor. “I’ve a good memory. ‘Fifty-one, two; the gift of life is nourished by the water of sorrow’…and what do you think that’s supposed to mean, hmm? Because I think whatever is waiting there is just another warzone.”

_And I’m sick of war. I will run as fast and as far as I can, if I can avoid war and bloodshed._

He didn’t even have to say those words. River knew he was thinking them.

“You can’t know that,” she murmured. But she had to admit, he certainly could be correct given what the past coordinates had led him to.

“You’re right,” the Doctor said. “I can’t. Look, I said I’d save her, and I will.”

“Eventually, and on your own time?” She couldn’t say that she expected anything different from him, but she couldn’t help feeling a little bitter. And perhaps, a little worried. Never mind him saving her; there was also the bargain with the Witch weighing on her mind, now.

“This,” boasted the Doctor, patting the console, “is the best ship in the Universe. Don’t worry, Threnody. The Princess will hold a little longer, and I can always go back in time to help her…”

He looked up suddenly, his face animated. “Time. I didn’t tell her…thanks, Threnody.”

“I didn’t say anything-“

“I’ll be back later,” the Doctor said, reaching out almost nonchalantly to turn the volume button on the speakers to mute, and then hesitantly eject the CD for the first time since he’d put it in, months ago. He held it for a moment, feeling like a traitor before he gently placed it down on the console and turned to walk toward the doors.


	13. An absence of words

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry sorry sorry! Fell behind this week with the updates - end of semester, plus work is a mess.. Anyway. Back now, and thank you guys so much for being patient.

There was no one quite like Rose Tyler, the Doctor decided. He’d had dozens of companions in the past whom he’d cherished for who they were and what they did; but she was funny with an artlessly caring side, while being both impetuous and adventurous. Rose Tyler was a little pink-and-yellow human who made him forget, and had managed to worm her way into his affections by not even trying.

And perhaps she didn’t always save him, after that first time. There was a fair amount of saving each other… which he actually rather liked. He liked that she wasn’t always practical, that he could say ‘follow and see what trouble we find ourselves in’ and she would. Without too many questions, without expectations; without anything, in fact, except a thirst for excitement that matched his own.

“I don’t know what you keep in here,” Rose complained, appearing back in the console room, her arms heaped with clothes in every hue of the rainbow. “I mean; your wardrobe, Doctor, it’s… great. But what is _this_?” She shook out a green velvet toga, big enough to be a winter outfit for the Statue of Liberty; and the Doctor squinted at it for a moment, trying to place it.

“Ceremonial robe on Aquimin,” he announced, snapping his fingers as he finally remembered. “Be careful with it, will you? Those are precious, the priests wear them.”

“And how tall are they!?”

“Taller than you,” admitted the Doctor. “About ten times your height… I hate going there. They always pat me on the head like I’m a toy poodle. Very demeaning.”

“And this?” She held up what looked like two psychedelic tissues in swirling pinks and electric greens, laced together with silver cord.

“Huh. Evening gown, Fifty-second Century. I’ll have you know, that one is from Earth.”

“Evening gown for…who?” Rose held it up to herself, trying to shift it to either cover her upper half or her lower; because with the size of it, it certainly couldn’t do both. The Doctor snorted in amusement, choosing not to tell her it was meant for a man, and worn more like a scarf.

“I suppose I could wear it as a top,” she said slowly, completely unaware of him choking down his laughter. “To a club. But we’re not likely to be doing that, are we?”

“Normal Twenty-first Century club?” He scoffed. “What’s the fun in that?”

“Nothing! And I don’t want to go back…except.” She bit her lip, looking up at him through her eyelashes.

“Except?” The Doctor prompted.

“Except I’d really love my own clothes. Yours are great for dress up, but…I’d really just like my own jeans, and a few tops. Maybe another pair of trainers.

“And I should look in on Mum. I know,” Rose sighed, “I can ring her. But she’s my Mum, and I want to check on her. Properly check on her ‘cause I miss her and... Doctor, can we go? Back to London, just for an hour?”

The thing was, he didn’t want to. He was being selfish and he knew it; but he liked that Rose wasn’t on at him about demands, talking about people to be saved or reminding him of some great destiny. Rose was just _Rose_ ; and he didn’t like being reminded that she really did have a place she belonged… he preferred to think of her as another wanderer in time and space, like him. 

Still, he wasn’t proof against her pleading look. And it was easy to aim the TARDIS back to the Powell Estate twelve hours after he’d picked her up.

“Now,” she cautioned, “don’t go running off.”

“No,” a little voice piped up when she was out of earshot. “Don’t go doing that, Doctor.”

He was reluctant to turn his head because he knew it was there. A short, cross green imp with a grumpy look on its face.

“Ah,” he said vaguely, “look who’s turned up.”

“Don’t give me that.” The imp glared, actually going so far as to stamp it’s foot like a petulant child. “I’ve been running around after you since you went to have a little chat with the Nestene. The end of the Earth, Victorian Cardiff…and you ignored me both times! Do you make a habit of pretending you can’t hear what you don’t want to, Doctor?”

“Would I do that?”

“Wouldn’t you?”

“Would I?”

“I sense,” the imp said sourly, “that you can continue this debate for eternity.”

“ _Could_ I?”

A sigh. “Don’t start that again.”

“I didn’t,” said the Doctor. “ _You_ did. I’m here, minding my own business; and you show up! Uninvited.”

“I,” snarled the imp, “don’t need to be invited.”

“You don’t say!”

“You’re being ridiculous.” The imp gave him a withering look. “I’m here, Doctor, until you do what you’re supposed to. Have you forgotten that you promised to help someone? There’s a-“

“A poor, trapped Princess,” the Doctor said in a mocking sing-song. "Locked away in her tower and waiting for her Prince Charming. Well, I was told that she was holding, so she can continue to hold.”

“Is that fair on her? Hanging around…like she’s a draft of an email, waiting to be sent?”

“How fair is it on me?” muttered the Doctor. “Forced into helping her?”

The imp snickered. “One day, you’ll remember saying those words and feel guilty for your selfishness.”

“Well,” the Doctor said. “Guilt. No change there.”

“Stop being maudlin.”

“Stop being annoying!”

“I’m not annoying,” the imp protested.

“You are, and I wish you’d go away.” He might have been sulking just a little as he strolled away, kicking a piece of rubbish, when he caught sight of a paper tacked to the pole about a missing girl. One who looked like…

“It’s not been twelve hours, has it?” The Doctor spun around, looking at the imp. It shrugged.

“Silly Doctor. I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again: for a Time Lord, you are remarkably bad with time. And, I’ll give you a bit of unsolicited advice. When you steal a ship, you ought to take the manual too.”

“Borrow.”

“Never brought it back, did you? And certainly can’t return it now.”

Biting back a snarl, the Doctor turned to walk toward the stairs, only to find the imp in his way. He took a step left, then right, the imp following him and blocking his way each time.

“Shove off, will you? I should get upstairs; Rose might need some help explaining.”

“Not until you listen to me.” The imp crossed its arms, small face serious. “Doctor, it’s a whole year you’ve wasted while the Princess has been waiting… even if you did take rather a shortcut.”

“She’s holding,” muttered the Doctor, shifting uncomfortably. “She’s fine.”

“She’s trapped, losing hope and trying to be brave about the idea that you might give up saving her. Does that sound fine to you?”

“I’ve got a time machine!” the Doctor protested. “I can run around the world and be back in time for tea!”

“Except, you’re so remarkably bad about that sort of thing! Mistaking twelve hours for twelve months… dear me, you are deficient in that Gallifreyan time-sense, aren’t you?” 

The Doctor scowled.

“And,” the imp continued, giving him a sly, sidelong look, “what if something happens to you? How do you think she’d fare? If something happened and you couldn’t make it back…how long do you think she should wait then?”

“That would never happen,” the Doctor said. “I’m more resilient than you think.”

The imp let out a giggle, shaking its head. “May I just say: your ego is amazing.”

“And I’m modest too,” the Doctor said, ducking around the imp and taking off at a run toward the stairs. “An all-around win.

“You’ll see,” he called down from the top of the landing, seeing the imp turn to look up at him. “She’ll be fine until I get there. No worries.”

* * *

Except that he kept replaying the imp’s words in the back of his mind. The good thing about being a Time Lord was that unlike a human, he _could_ devote fifteen percent of his total brain power toward something like that, while the bulk of it was left to deal with a spaceship crashing into Big Ben, chasing a terrified pigman through a medical lab, and Jackie Tyler slapping him. 

But everything dovetails eventually; and for just a moment -trapped in a shelter by a farting alien, thinking that this would be an even worse way to go than in Cardiff; and why was it always _gas_ lately!- he cringed at the thought that the imp could have been right. Very easily, no matter how nonchalant he was about the prospect, something really could bring about his end.

And what would happen to the Princess then? He wasn’t sure. He wasn’t even sure he cared…  
well, okay. Maybe he cared a little.

Maybe even more than a little.

“You still can’t promise me she’ll be safe,” Jackie said as he stood with his arms full of Rose’s bag, wishing that she’d hurry up and say good-bye already. “What if something happens to you, Doctor, and she’s stuck on some moon a million light-years away? How long do I wait then?”

“Ten seconds.” Rose soothed Jackie with a hug and words that he knew she believed, even if her mother didn’t. “I can travel and be back in just ten seconds.”

_But not always_. He didn’t say it; he stared uncomfortably off and didn’t say a word because he _knew_. Sometimes it didn’t work like that. Threnody had told him a story that last night -before he’d stopped wanting to hear her voice reminding him of what he should be doing- about a Princess trapped in a tower. The selfish yet brave Princess who did a selfless thing and found herself locked up for her pains…

Not every story had a happy ending. For all he knew, Rose might not have a happy ending, travelling with him. He hadn’t said the words to promise Jackie that her daughter would always be safe because really, could he make that sort of promise to anyone?

And much later (after tea and chips and a small adventure for Rose to see a blossoming star) he stood by himself in the darkened console room, trying to decide what to do.

It wasn’t as though he didn’t know his failings. Since childhood back on Gallifrey they’d been the same. An overwhelming ability to talk, a disregard for safety and suspicion of authority. But it was a horrible thing after nine hundred years to really have to face your flaws; because after all that time, they’ve done you the disadvantage of becoming all the more glaring and pronounced.

He was selfish, terribly so. Very protective over his own independence, and too fond of running away when something wasn’t going how he’d like it to; or when anyone tried to appeal to his better nature and force him to do what he didn’t feel like.

Which he could live with, for himself. But perhaps he was feeling a little guilty. He’d always thought that even with those things, he was basically honest. Maybe even a little trustworthy. Not the sort at all to ignore someone in pain, or to make promises and not live up to them…

Without thinking too much about what he was doing, the Doctor pushed the CD with Threnody’s consciousness into the drive.

“Hello,” he called tentatively into the silence. “Threnody. You there?”

There was nothing. Her program must have booted up because the monitor had sprung into bland grey life, but there was no sound.

“Nothing to tell me?” he tried again. “Or are you sulking?”

More silence. The Doctor peered at the screen.

“Thought you’d always be here, you said. Whenever I needed you… I know I haven’t been around much lately. Been busy, met a new companion…well,” he shrugged, “I’m sure you knew that, didn’t you? Rose. She decided to come travelling, guess she liked the idea of moving around in time? And she’s fantastic, really is. Not bad at all for a human.”

The absence of sound could be as loud as any noise, and the quiet in the TARDIS pressed down heavily into his ears. The Doctor barrelled on, speaking quickly as he looked for any sign of life from the monitor.

“But I was thinking today… the Princess. You were trying to tell me something about her, and I know this is a time machine, there’s no rush… but I thought that maybe I should take another look at that poem. See about finally rescuing her… what do you think?”

He held his breath, expecting a reply; but the screen stayed blank and finally the Doctor let out a sigh.

“Alright,” he admitted softly, “I shouldn’t have turned you off. That was wrong, and I’m sorry about that. But I was… I just didn’t want…

“Did I ever tell you, Threnody, I hate being told what to do?” He waited, listening for the sigh he knew she would have made. Or she would have laughed... made a snide comment of ‘oh really, I would never have guessed.’

But there was nothing. The screen flickered a light pink, but that was all.

“And I just didn’t feel like listening to you. I know that wasn’t good, I know I made a promise to help her. But I hate being told ‘do this now’. _I’m_ usually the one who says that…” 

He paused, waiting for a response that didn’t come.

“Thought you said you’d always be here?” the Doctor whispered, feeling irrationally hurt. “I wish you’d talk to me. I _said_ I’m sorry, Threnody. I’m willing to look at the poem now, or talk to you about the Princess…what else do you want?”

The time rotor startled him as it burst into sluggish motion, switches flicked at random; and the Doctor ran to see what the TARDIS was doing.

“Alright then,” he said, a grim smile on his face. “Are you taking sides with the TARDIS, now? I forgot; you’ve an affinity for temperamental machines like her. I’m here. Coordinates of fifty-one, two…let’s see what’s waiting for me.”


	14. A Future Yet Unlived

It wasn’t what he expected. It was England, he’d known it would be. But for some reason he’d expected to walk into fire and blood and screams…

Well; there _were_ screams. But aside from tears over a few skinned knees and bumped elbows, they were primarily screams of laughter from the children climbing all over a playground, hanging upside down from monkey bars and sailing belly-first down the slide. Tentatively, as though he expected something to erupt in this pleasant pastoral setting, the Doctor sauntered toward a woman sitting by herself on the swings.

“This is nice,” he said casually, trying to make it seem completely normal that he was in a playground without being accompanied by a child. “Never been here before, but it’s nice and peaceful in this village. Looks like a great place to grow up.”

“Yeah,” the woman responded, not looking up at him, “it is. Bit quiet, if you like that.”

There was something about her that had drawn him, almost like precognition; although he would have sworn he’d never met her before. But equally, there was something about her that gave him the creeps. It might have been the air of neglect about her- the bright red hair that hung in lank, unwashed strands past her shoulders and the chipped navy polish on bitten-down fingernails- or it could’ve been the way she kept her face turned almost resolutely away from him combined with the apathetic way she dragged her feet in the dust beneath the swing, the nervousness with which her hands clutched at the chains so tightly her knuckles were white.

Either way, there was something strange about her. He fought the urge to pull out his screwdriver and scan if she was human. She _seemed_ human. Just… off. A ginger maw of negativity and unhappiness seated on a swing.

“Well,” the Doctor babbled nervously, hoping he wasn’t sitting next to a zombie, “quiet isn’t really my thing. Probably good I don’t live here; more fond of adventure myself. Seeing new places, new people, try new foods, make a fool of myself when I mess up local customs…”

The woman gave a snort of laughter. “I’ve a friend like that,” she admitted, unthawing just a little. “He’s just the same.”

“Is he? It’s not a bad way to be.”

“No,” she said, “not at all. We used to go on trips together, had a lot of fun. But that was before I moved back here with my husband.”

“Oh, so that friend isn’t your husband?”

“Ugh.” Her look of distaste was the most animated he’d seen her so far. “He’s not…ugh.” She shook her head.

“That’s a no, then?” teased the Doctor. She made a vomiting sound in response. “I’m sure he’s flattered by your feelings toward him.”

“Believe me, you’d totally understand if you saw him. Think of a twig with floppy hair and a bad fashion sense, and you’ll have him summed up.”

“Hey,” the Doctor said, feeling irrationally offended, “looks aren’t everything.”

“Yeah,” she agreed half-heartedly, “but they’re worth _something_. And his clothes… well, they are something else. Of the see-it-to-believe-it variety.”

“So,” said the Doctor, “your husband, then? Well dressed? Good looking?”

“ _I_ think so. I mean, my friend says that only anteaters have his sort of nose. But I think it suits him.”

“And your kids?” asked the Doctor, scanning the playground and looking for any gingers, “same nose, or do they look more like you? Which one here is yours?”

The woman froze, turning to him with an expression he could only describe as terrifying. Her face had an unhealthy pallor with freckles standing out in stark contrast, her lips were pale and chapped, and her wide hazel eyes looked puffy and red-rimmed and perhaps just a bit vacuous... all of which turned what he had a feeling was normally a very pretty girl into…well, the zombie he’d originally feared she was.

“None of them,” she whispered in a low voice. “None of these here are.”

He hadn’t needed to worry about being the only adult there without a child, then.

“I used to come here all the time,” the woman said softly, looking lost in memories. “With my best friend. She loved it when I pushed her on the swings, and then she’d jump off and land… like a cat. She was always really graceful, even as a little kid.

“And my husband… I mean,” she amended hastily, “he wasn’t my husband then, we were seven, but we used to play together on the slides. He was always too slow about going down, so I’d push him when he wasn’t ready, and he’d fall off the bottom and get mad…”

The Doctor frowned. Coordinates didn’t lie; and this was definitely fifty-one, two. He’d checked. But was it the right time? Or was she even the right person? Had he really come here to listen to this woman reminiscing about a childhood that could only have been a few years in her past?

“So what’s wrong then?” he asked, finally deciding that the best way to get an answer was just to leap in. “They’re mad at you, is that it? Had a fight and they’re not talking to you anymore?”

“No.”

“You’re mad at them?”

“No.”

“Well,” he grumbled, “give me something! Someone has to be mad, or you wouldn’t be sitting in a playground looking like your life is over.”

“No one is mad,” she flared angrily. 

“Especially not you?”

“ _I’m_ not mad!” There were little patches of bright pink colour in her cheeks, making her look more vibrantly alive, even as her eyes filled with tears.

“Yes,” said the Doctor in an incredulous voice. “I believe that.”

“It’s true,” she grumbled. “I’m not mad, I’m just… thinking. And my husband…well, he’s not mad either. And that’s just the problem; he’s being all ‘it’s ok, we’ll work it all out and it’ll be fine, we’ll all be fine in the end’ and he just doesn’t see…”

She paused, closing her eyes. “It’s not alright. It won’t be, and I hate him for saying it even though he means it nicely, because it’s not. All. Right.” She spit out the last words in a rage, her eyes still squeezed shut and her face screwed up into a scowl; and the Doctor shifted uncomfortably. He wasn’t good at this sort of thing. Crying women in a temper. He fished a handkerchief out of his pocket, pushing it into her hand and watched her blot the tears rolling down her cheeks, rubbing her eyes hard.

“Maybe,” the Doctor suggested, feeling completely useless, “your husband is right? Things do work out…”

She gave him a withering look. “You’re not one of those ‘things happen for a reason’ people are you? They make me mad.”

“Oh, and I’d hate to see you get mad,” muttered the Doctor. “Because you’re a real cheer right now.

“Look, everything does happen for a reason. And maybe he’s right. Maybe everything will work out, and things will be fixed and you’ll all be fine-“

“Did you ever,” she interrupted him, “have something that you didn’t know you wanted? Like, you thought ‘maybe I’ll have that one day’ but it didn’t bother you that one day wasn’t now. And then, suddenly, you got it. You held it in your hands, and you realised that you’d never feel complete again without it.”

“Well,” the Doctor started to say, but she kept talking right over him.

“And then it was gone. Like just… _gone_. And you didn’t know –I mean, how could you if you never knew you wanted it?– how much it would hurt that you’d been careless and lost it.”

She was staring at him, waiting for an answer; but he didn’t have one to give her.

“Everyone has regrets,” he suggested without enthusiasm. “And everyone loses things that they didn’t know they’d miss until…” 

He stopped abruptly, the gentle platitudes sticking in his throat as he remembered Gallifrey. His pain and grief during those first days, that feeling that the world had up-ended and he was lost and alone and without hope.

“Are you by any chance,” he started to murmur, before cutting off the rest of his words. _Are you her? Are you the Princess_? But he had a feeling, the same one that had drawn him to sit next to her, that she wasn’t. There was something reassuringly human about her. Not an enchanted Princess at all, only a grieving woman.

The Doctor sighed, casting a surreptitious look around for the imp. It was always there when he didn’t need; he’d turn his head when he was out with Rose and catch a distracting glimpse of a swish of hair, or a small green face frowning at him. But when he needed it, now… Nowhere to be seen.

“Am I what?” the woman asked. She bit her lip, looking up at him with large, hopeful eyes; and the Doctor shrugged.

“Nothing,” he mumbled. “It’s nothing. I came here because I thought someone needed…”

_Help_. At each coordinate, someone had needed help. He’d had to save someone… and maybe, she wasn’t the right person here. It might not even have been the right timestamp; but suddenly he knew he couldn’t walk away from her and her grief.

Once, he might have. After the Time War, he might have shrugged and said she was nothing to do with him, and why should he bother?

But he wasn’t like that anymore, was he? Maybe he’d changed a bit. All those people he’d been doing things for along the way, not just Rory and Anthony and Angus, but all the people in Krakatoa, the Daniels’ family, Rose and the rest of London and even Mickey the idiot… Maybe he’d become a better Doctor; one who was willing to help people again. Even if he didn’t need to.

“I know how you feel,” he said slowly, turning to the woman who’d been watching him with wide eyes. “It _hurts_ when you lose something. It’s like a knife in your gut, like you’re being slowly poisoned and you’ve acid eating away at your insides; and you think you’ll never forget.”

She gave him a watery smile through the fresh tears that had welled up when he’d started to speak. “Nice images. You must have quite a career as a motivational speaker.”

“Hey, I’m quite motivational; you should hear me talk when I really get going. But listen to me,” he reached out to pull the kerchief from her limp fingers and brush away her tears before holding her hands in his. “I know you don’t know me. But I know how you feel, I do.”

“Then what did you lose?” she demanded, looking curiously at him. “That you’d understand?”

The Doctor hesitated. “My home,” he mumbled in a gruff voice. “I lost everything; big explosion and it all burned. I don’t have a past now, everything is gone except my memories.”

Her look of horror was swiftly replaced by sympathy. “I’m… I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have  
asked.”

“Not your fault is it? It was,” he swallowed, “mine. I caused it.”

She squeezed his hands, gently. “I bet it wasn’t. I bet there were other situations, maybe if something had been different then…?”

He shrugged brusquely. “No. Maybe. Anyway, I can’t change it now. So now you know something about me…what about you? What’ve you lost, then?”

She let out a shaky sigh; and the Doctor wordlessly blotted at her eyes. “I lost my baby,” she said softly. “Saying that sounds so stupid, it sounds like I put her down somewhere and forgot where. I didn’t lose her, she was stolen. Kidnapped.

“And the thing that’s worse than just the fact that she’s gone is that I feel I should’ve known it might happen. Or I should have guessed… what sort of terrible Mum am I that I never even realised that what I was holding wasn’t my flesh and blood?”

“I don’t think it works like that,” the Doctor tried to say, but she gave an impatient grunt.

“But aren’t you just supposed to _know_? My family life when I was growing up, it wasn’t really…” she gulped, words falling out of her mouth at high speed, “normal, you’d say. But I thought when I held her that I’d be better than they were. I’d never let her go no matter what. I’d always be there for her when she needed me; but then she was just gone.

“And we know someone who is working on it, so I know that she’s still out there somewhere… because I know they needed her alive. They needed a baby with the right genetics so it’s not like she’s _dead_ ; even though it would almost be easier, if she was.

“And you must think,” she continued, looking faintly embarrassed, “that I’m horrible for saying that; but if she was, it would mean I could say goodbye and know she’s at peace. But right now, I just know that she’s out there in the world, and technically she’s fine and healthy and she’ll grow up and be amazing; but not with me. I might never hold her again, and sometimes, I just want to _hit_ something or someone... just scream until the world falls down.”

She took his handkerchief from him again, wiping at her eyes roughly; and the Doctor searched for something to tell her. Rory and Angus had been easy, compared to this. Physical things always were. But how do you fix grief?

When you’ve lost something irreplaceable -the way they both had- there are no kind words will make you feel better. Nothing worked, except the time to learn to accept your loss. To find other things to fit into the hole left behind until the raw edges of pain eased enough that you could wake up each day and not regret that you had; and for all his facility with words and world-saving, the Doctor realised with a sinking feeling, he was utterly lost here.

“I’m sorry.” She sniffled, trying to smile at him. “I’m not like this usually. All weepy and drippy... It’s just that I can’t talk to anyone about it. My husband, he’s just going to work all the time. I guess that’s how he deals. And no one else around here even knows I was pregnant; we were away, you see? So I can’t talk about it.”

“Not to anyone?” The Doctor placed his hand over hers, squeezing gently to try to offer what comfort he could. “You lot, always jabbering on. Seems unlikely there’s no one you can talk to…what about that best friend you mentioned? Or the other one, the one you travelled with?”

She sighed, a wry expression on her face. “Yeah, they know. Only, they aren’t being much help. My best friend tries to make me feel better, keeps telling me that she’s sure I’ll get my daughter back, and when I do, she’ll make sure she hurts the people who stole my baby. Makes these grand plans of revenge; that’s really her, she was always like that. But there isn’t anything she can do. The people who stole my baby…” she snorted, “it’s like they’re not even human. And she’s used to trouble and fighting and stealing; but she’s like me. She wouldn’t have any defences against them.

“It’s hard to talk to her about this, because she seems so angry for me, she acts even angrier than I do. Like she takes this personally; when it’s _me_ , my daughter. Sometimes it’s hard to take, because I don’t _need_ her anger, I just want – oh, I don’t know what I want.” She sighed. 

“And then my other friend… he knows too. He’s trying to help and do something to save her, but...” She shrugged. “It’s complicated. Neither of them knows the right thing to tell me to make it better.

“And, well.” She paused, her eyes skipping away from the Doctor’s. “There is someone else who knows everything. She’s a friend; at least I always thought she was, and I used to trust her, because when she’s around everything always seemed to work out alright. But she’s involved with it -the kidnapping- in a weird way, which makes it all more complicated, even though I think she’s trying to be there for me as much as she can. And it helps… _she_ helps with what she says, the most out of everyone. But sometimes I can’t forget that she’s different now that she knows I know; just not the same person I always thought she was.”

“People don’t change that much,” protested the Doctor.

“You wouldn’t understand, but she did. Or maybe it’s just that how I see her is different. Anyway, most days I don’t feel right talking to her about all this, and that makes me feel even more alone.”

She subsided into silence, still looking away from him with her lips trembling; and it _hurt_ him, seeing her grief and her staunch locking-away of it. It hurt more than anything he could have imagined and he didn’t know why; he just knew that he had to do something, say something to try to help. Whether she was the Princess or not, connected or not… he couldn’t just walk away, here.

“I think,” the Doctor said, trying desperately to find the right words, “that it’s not complicated at all. Friends, you know. It doesn’t matter if you think someone is different, or even if they completely understand and know the right thing to say, but if they care about you they’ll be there if you need them. Because what do you plan to do with yourself? Keep sitting in playgrounds and crying by yourself?”

She scowled. “That’s harsh.”

“That’s true.”

“Even if it is! Still harsh! And what did you do, when your house burned? Just get up the next morning and say: ‘well, I guess tomorrow is another day?’”

He frowned, thinking for a moment about the long days alone in the TARDIS. Of meeting the imp and going on a quest to find some lost Princess, of Rory and Anthony and Angus and all the steps that had led him _here_.

And then he thought of Threnody. Of the nights when he couldn’t sleep, hearing her clipped electronic voice telling him stories and drawing him out of his grief, making him smile and encouraging him to go out to do things to atone for the guilt he still felt in his hearts. She had helped him when he needed it most… because he had a feeling that if it hadn’t been for her, he might not have met Rose. He might not have been alive enough to let anyone into his life, or care about anyone or anything again.

“I’ve got this…she’s sort of a friend,” he answered. “And she was there, as much as she could be. And I’ve met someone else now. I’m not,” he paused, knowing the words coming out of his mouth were the truth, “alone anymore.

“And it’s not the same as it was, when I had a place to call home. I’m not the same, because what happened did, and the past can’t change. But it’s not the end of the world, doesn’t have to be. Why don’t you give your friends a call? Never know, they might be more understanding than you think.”

She gave him a tiny smile. “Hard to. They’re not great about answering their phones.”

“And I suppose,” said the Doctor, “that it might kill you to leave a message, then? I’m not great about answering my phone either, but people always reach _me_ when they need to.” He rolled his eyes. “You lot. Think things through! Call until they answer, find some way to get their attention. Send up a flare, if that would help.”

She hesitated, considering. “Look, you don’t know them. A regular message wouldn’t do anything; all of them would only respond if it was something so huge and dramatic you could even see it from...” Her eyes went wide; and then she let out a small giggle, her face suddenly animated and glowing.

“Huh,” she said, pushing his handkerchief back at him. “I’ve got to go.”

“Have a plan?” asked the Doctor. Her answering grin was open and warm; and for just a moment she was so very familiar that his hearts jumped in his chest.

“I have a plan,” she agreed. “But thanks for everything; that helped. _You_ helped… a lot.”

“Going to go make a phone call, then?”

“Nope. Think I’ll try writing a message instead. A really…big message. Much easier, especially when people don’t answer their phones.”

She gave him one more smile, looking nothing like the grief-stricken woman she’d been moments ago; and as she turned to run out of the playground toward her car muttering under her breath about wheatfields, the Doctor realised something. 

She’d never even said her name… and he’d been so drawn into her and her sadness and her story, he’d forgotten to ask.

Still. Bossy, ginger and Scottish. He had a good memory; and he was sure he’d not forget her. He shook his head, smiling to himself and feeling his hearts lighten as he tucked his handkerchief -still wet from her tears- back into his pocket.


	15. A Situation Out of Control

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thanks to Sarah Blackwood for letting me steal her (stolen) line…

There were times River was impressed by her husband. When he was enthusiastic or clever, when he managed –often by wits and sometimes by sheer luck- to save the world; she’d look at him with a fond smile and sigh, feeling her hearts light with love for him.

Unfortunately, there were other times when only one word summed him up.

_Idiot_.

She’d actually groaned aloud, the first time he’d done -whatever it was he’d done- and prevented her from talking to him anymore. And it didn’t help that she knew him. Knew his habits when he was scared or resentful; and knew that it wasn’t so much that he didn’t want to help, but that he wanted to run from obligations. Look how long he’d run from her, after all. The incipient promise of what River Song might be to him; and he’d fled like a scared rabbit across time and space.

Still, she sat in that bedroom. Waiting for him to grow up. Waiting for him to be willing to talk to her again. Because, really… what else could she do?

And then, when he finally did?

“Hello,” he called tentatively into the silence. “Threnody. You there?”

“I’m here,” said River archly. “Took your time about acknowledging me again.”

“Nothing to tell me?” he asked. “Or are you sulking?”

“ _You_ sulk when things don’t go your way, Doctor. But I’m not that sort of girl.”

He was quiet, not acknowledging her hit; and River leaned forward to peer closer into the mirror. She could read the confusion on his features, the little bit of hurt in the crease between his eyes.

“Thought you’d always be here, you said.”

“I _am_ here,” insisted River. “Don’t you listen anymore?”

But he wasn’t. She felt a lump in her throat as she stroked her thumb softly over his reflection, all while he kept talking as though he couldn’t hear her. He told her about Rose, he even apologised for refusing to listen before… but it didn’t make up for the fact that he still couldn’t hear her _now_.

“I wish you’d talk to me,” he said, and River bit back a sob.

“And I wish you’d hear me,” she retorted. “Or do something… prove that maybe you’d really want to listen? _Try_ going to the next coordinates; or am I supposed to tell you everything you’re to do?!”

The TARDIS startled them both as the time rotor began to rise and sink; and as the Doctor ran to check the console, River began to laugh weakly.

The Doctor might have so often be able to save the day with wits and luck; but it was good for her that TARDIS was always on _her_ side.

Except that it didn’t help. He went to the coordinates; and River -knowing full well that outside the TARDIS he never could hear her, anyway- gave voice to her anger and frustration, swearing at the top of her lungs. _Damn_ their timelines: because she knew very well who that woman was, and why she was upset; and this young, the Doctor had no clue.

There was a peculiar multiple-vision that came with being a time traveler; and this situation was almost worse because it had involved her, at so many different points in her own timestream. She’d been Mels -angry and bitter because it wasn't just Amy who had lost someone, it her as well always dealing with the aftermath- as well as the River Song fresh from Demons Run, trying to fill three-months-worth of awkward silence with tea and innocuous small talk with parents who couldn't quite look her in the eye, being sustained only because she knew the acceptance that would come in their future, her past.

And she remembered being in university -not quite River but no longer Mels- when a much older Amy apologized for what had happened and what was to come. She'd told her then about meeting a nice man who had been kind to her when she needed it, and how he’d talked to her about friendship, about moving on and finding a new direction for her life to take... And River had smiled and nodded, not quite understanding but feeling grateful to that man for whatever he’d said that helped Amy begin to come to terms with her feelings regarding her daughter.

Funny, but she was more used to associating the Doctor with White Wizards and kindly Grandfathers in fairy tales. She’d never thought Amy’s mystery confidant would have been him… but of course. Who else would it have been? Of course he’d not needed to find the words in the future, because he’d already said them in the past.

* * *

There was a small sound like a cricket chirp; and River looked up to see a swing of long brown hair surrounding the small worried face that peered around the doorway into her bedroom.

“I’ve wondered where you were,” said River mildly, putting aside her mirror to look straight at the child. “It’s been a while, hasn’t it?”

Charlotte nodded. “I thought you were mad at me. I didn’t mean to run away from you, before.”

River managed a small laugh, opening her arms in welcome as Charlotte ran into them. “No one ever does,” she murmured, resting her cheek against the girl’s silky brown hair. “Someone told me once, though: never run if you’re scared.”

“I wasn’t scared,” said Charlotte indignantly. “I knew you weren’t leaving me alone forever. It was just that when you’re not around, I miss you. You’re not like everyone else here, River. You’re something different.”

“Yes,” said River, “I have always been different.”

“No, you are. You’re more like Doctor Moon.” Charlotte hesitated, one small hand creeping out to curl around River’s fingers. “With everyone else, I can see what they are doing. I just _think_ about them, and they are right there in my head. But you’ve never been as easy to find; I have to focus and focus. And then, when you come here to this room, it’s like something is shielding you and you’re not even here at all.”

“But this room,” said River, “it’s just an extension of the Library, Charlotte.”

“It’s not,” the girl said. “I never dreamt up this room. _You_ did. I don’t even know what story it’s from.”

“It’s not,” River began, before she stopped, sighing. 

“It’s not from a story,” she said finally. “This is my room, the way it was on the TARDIS. The desk is from the 51st Century; it was in my flat back when I was at Luna. I wrote my dissertation at it…” and River smiled because when she looked at it, it seemed she could see herself back then, so young as she frowned and groaned, trying to find the right words to document the Time War and the alternate ways it had ended.

“The shelves over there?” She gestured to the corner where three bookshelves leaned drunkenly, supporting each other. “The Doctor built those for me. Said he put his screwdriver to good use… even though I teased him afterwards. An appliance doesn’t hold off enemies, and apparently he’s not so good at using it for construction purposes either.”

Charlotte squirmed a little closer until she was almost sitting on River’s lap. “And there?” she asked eagerly. “The pictures?”

“The places we were married.” She could sense Charlotte counting silently, only her lips moving and her eyes getting more incredulous as the number grew higher.

“I can save you time; it’s at least two hundred. There’s none from the first one; it was,” she laughed, “a busy time. But we got pictures of so many of the rest… especially the ones my parents were at. Mother insisted; she had a photo album of all of them. She tried to put them up in silver frames at first, but,” River shrugged, “there’s no wall, even in the TARDIS to support that many.”

Charlotte giggled, burying her face against River’s neck with a little sigh; before she tilted her face up, her expression solemn.

“How did this room get here?” she asked. “Because it’s not from a story; and the only things that are supposed to be here, are things from stories.”

“I’m not actually certain,” answered River slowly. “All of this, Charlotte; it’s a database inside your mind. Things can be created, codes written…”

“But not for something that never existed before. You can borrow from a story… like the castle that Miss Evangelista lives in? It’s from a real book. But this,” Charlotte gestured around the room, “I never made it up. And it’s not something I’ve read about… so, can I ask you something?” River nodded encouragingly, and Charlotte continued.

“What have you been doing here?”

It was the question she should have expected; but still, River paused, not knowing quite what to say.

_I’ve been talking to the Doctor, but not the one either of us knew. I was trying to make him care enough about people again to make him be the sort of person would want to save someone… I was encouraging him to run through time and try to save **me** ; even though he doesn’t know why he’d want to._

“It’s a long story,” she said finally.

“The best ones always are,” answered Charlotte seriously; and River smiled.

“You’re right,” she said, kissing the top of the girl’s head. “They are.”

“So will you tell me?” Charlotte asked. “The long story? We’ve got time.”

She wondered though, if they did. Since coming back from the last coordinates, the Doctor was still unable to hear her, no matter how often he tried or how loudly she shouted… and sometimes she had an unpleasant feeling that it was an indicator that the Witch had been correct. There had been a definite timespan she’d had to work in to get him to save her; and perhaps, it was coming to a close.

“How about,” said River, “I tell you about a man I knew? Someone once called him a dark Prince travelling under a curse; but that wasn’t true. He was only ever a traveller in a magic ship, someone who could look forwards and backwards in time, seeing great and wondrous sights and doing great and wondrous things. He was a hero to so many -all those people and places he saved- but for a long time, he was burdened down with guilt…because once he did something that he thought he’d never atone for. 

“And he honestly thought for a long time, much longer than he would ever admit to, that he was so bad that the Universe was better off without him.”

“And was he right?” Charlotte asked curiously. “Was the Universe better without him?”

“No,” admitted River. “He was wrong. He often was, you know. There are stars in the sky, planets saved… there are people living and laughing and loving on a million planets, a million eras because of him, and what he was willing to sacrifice. He never realised,” she said, “that sometimes the greater the sacrifice, the more there is to gain in the end.”

“Do you believe that?”

River had one arm around Charlotte, cradling the child against her; but her other hand was in her pocket, fingers curled tightly around the small mirror that used to feel like a life-line to her husband, and didn’t anymore.

“I have to.”


	16. Deeds of a Dark Prince

The thing about travelling the way the Doctor did, about running through time and space, was that it was easy to forget how much time was passing. For him, it felt like only moments. Van Statten’s museum, warping time so Rose could be at her father’s side, floor 500; each new place was like only another hour in eternity.

The days blurred one into the other; and all of them were full of Rose. And even his nights… she’d become a usual sight in the console room, dressed in snuggly flannel pyjamas and clutching a cup of tea, watching him tinkering with the gravitational vectors and asking occasional questions about places he’d been, or where they were going.

Which was nice. It was nice to have her there. But he realised, occasionally, that he hadn’t missed having a companion as much as he’d thought. Because for a while there, he’d had Threnody with him. 

Except that she wasn’t anymore.

He’d tried. Again and again and again, after Rose couldn’t stifle her yawns and had gone to bed; he’d switched on the monitor and put in her CD and tried talking to her. But there was never any response, not even when he asked questions.

“That’s all there was in the poem,” he said, peering at the screen. “Three sets of coordinates, and I’ve been to them all now. Now I’ve got some lines I don’t remember… and don’t tell me you think I must be getting forgetful because I’m old, Threnody.”

If she’d been there, he knew she’d have had a witty comeback. 

_You, old? You were old five hundred years ago; you’re practically ancient now._

“I’m not,” he answered into the silence. “Prime of my life, this. Nine hundred is barely out of childhood.”

_Pull the other one, Doctor._

His own laughter was the only sound in the room besides the hum of the rotor; and he sighed as he brought the poem up on the screen.

“Gift of life is given twice, saving requires redemption and honesty, framework of the impossible. Still no sense. I bet,” he said slyly, “even you couldn’t figure it out, hmm? Computers. Not as clever as they think they are.”

But even trying to rile her made no difference. There was no answer; and every night the Doctor grew discouraged a little faster, huffing out an exasperated sigh into the silence as he turned the monitor off.

It was different when Jack was there. Adam had been useless –a prime example of humanity at its worst- but Jack was selfish and kind and funny and smart. Utterly entertaining; even if the Doctor wasn’t fond of how he would eye Rose. (She was _his_ , Rose was; he’d found her and enticed her along, and he didn’t like the feeling that she might decide some square-jawed, chiselled ex-Time Agent could replace him in her affections. Maybe it was a bit selfish… but he certainly knew Jack didn’t lack for other partners; and the Doctor wished however irrationally, that he’d keep his innuendo off of her.)

With Rose and Jack and Mickey the idiot, sometimes he was busy enough that he didn’t think of Threnody or the Princess or the poem he still couldn’t understand. He was even able to ignore the imp; although it was still there. Sitting by a bedside in St. Albans, trailing along underfoot on every trip and muttering about how it didn’t see his fascination with Cardiff.

(Despite the rift, he didn’t see why Cardiff kept drawing him either; but he deliberately set his jaw and pretended he didn’t hear the imp’s grumbles.)

He was busy, busy, busy; right until they were drawn into reality television, and Rose was gone –and then back again- and Lynda was keeping watch for Daleks while he struggled to build a Delta Wave.

“And now that everyone is gone, and it’s just us two,” the imp said, strolling out of nowhere to sit squarely beside the Doctor, “I was thinking we could have a little chat.”

The Doctor spared half a glance at it, and shook his head impatiently. “No. This is a bad time for whatever you wanted. If you haven’t noticed, I’m a little busy right now.”

“When are your relaxing moments, Doctor? I think I must have blinked and missed them.”

“You’re annoying me,” the Doctor snapped. “And I can’t be annoyed right now. Look; if I don’t fix this, then the Daleks will return. Everything: _boom_.”

“Hardly _boom_. Daleks don’t have the firepower. It’s more: _flash_ before they exterminate you.”

“Expert on them, are you?”

The imp snickered. “I’ve been around. I know more than you’d think… and especially about them.

“Now,” it continued, turning serious, “we _will_ have a little talk, Doctor. You can keep working, if that makes you feel more useful.”

“Thanks,” muttered the Doctor.

“My pleasure. I do aim to be accommodating…unlike you. You haven’t done a thing about your Princess.”

“I tried,” the Doctor said. “I went to those coordinates, all of them.”

“And?”

“And what comes after that?” He put down his screwdriver carefully, sitting back to look at the imp. “You say that you know more than I’d think you do. So then, explain to me what I was supposed to do after that?”

The imp gave him a confused look.

“I read the poem,” said the Doctor. “I went to those places. I met a woman who refused to give up on the man she loved, a boy who was brave even if he was scared, and a grieving mother. But I still don’t know what I was supposed to do with that, or how those people connect into saving someone. If you want me to do something, then you have to give me some help…”

The imp’s expression was almost carefully blank. “I can’t, Doctor. I’m only here as your guide. I’m not the one who can provide assistance.”

“Yeah,” he said half-heartedly, picking up his screwdriver again. “That was Threnody. But she doesn’t talk to me anymore.”

“Or maybe you’ve stopped listening?”

“I listen!”

“To the things that are important?”

"She was important," muttered the Doctor.

_Is_ , he amended in his mind. Present tense. Threnody _is_ important to him, and every day it hurt a little more that she'd just disappeared. His fault; yes, it was his fault. Hard to put into words why exactly he missed her, her stories and her sly humor and her exasperated scolding and her unflinching acceptance ... He just did, not that he wanted to admit that to anyone.

"She was important for the help she gave me for this stupid quest." The imp gave him an unimpressed look, as though it could tell he was lying.

"Look," the Doctor burst out, "she is important to me, and I've tried to listen. But she doesn't talk anymore."

“Then maybe,” the imp said softly, eyes intent on the Doctor’s face, “she did what she needed to. Accomplished her role in this, provided all the help she was able to. Everything else after that, you have to understand the importance of yourself.”

“But how can I, if I don’t know what all of it means? All of this,” snapped the Doctor, “no one ever explained. Who I’m supposed to be saving…or even, why it had to be me doing it?”

The imp chortled a little laugh, standing up and stretching like a cat. “It’s never been up to me to tell you those things, Doctor. You’ll figure it out, given the time.

“And now I really ought to be going. You’ll be quite busy here for a while…provided you survive this.” The imp grinned at him, sharp white teeth flashing in the dimness of the room. 

“And if I may give you a piece of unsolicited advice-“

“Could I stop you?”

“No, you couldn’t. You could choose not to hear it, like you so often do… but I wouldn’t recommend it this time. You really ought to send your Companion home. Nice girl like that, so young and pretty. So brave and willing to stand by you, even into death…”

The Doctor lifted his head, anxiously. “Is it _Rose_?” he asked. The possibility had never occurred to him before. “The Princess?”

“No,” admitted the imp. “She’s brave enough, selfless enough… but she’s not her. Your Princess would never have been just your companion.”  


* * *

In the end, he did take the advice. He sent Rose home; only to have her come straight back, blazing with the light of a thousand suns in her eyes, and a strength in her that he had never imagined before. He watched as she destroyed the Daleks, as she saved him and almost burned herself up… and then he kissed her. Knowing, even as he did it, what he was doing. That he was sacrificing himself to save her in gratitude for her saving him; and that soon who he had been and the things he had done with this face and body would be only a memory in the back of his mind. Like a half-forgotten story.

He strode into the TARDIS with Rose in his arms and placed her gently on the floor before walking to the console, putting in Threnody’s CD for the last time. The monitor glowed dull grey, and he ran his fingers over it in a touch of nostalgia.

“Here I am,” he managed to say. It would be a bad regeneration this time, he could tell by just how hard it was to talk, even this early. “Last time you’ll see me with this daft face…not that you could see me anyway.”

The screen flickered rapidly in shades of soft blue and grey, and the Doctor closed his eyes.

“Can I tell you something, Threnody? Course I can. And now is the time to do it. Here’s the truth for you: I’m a selfish old man. Hate saying it, because sometimes I think that if I don’t say it, it won’t be true.

“But I was thinking when I sent Rose back, that it was wrong. Not because I was saving her, but because I’d rather leave than be the one left. I hate losing things and saying goodbye; and I wanted her to go back and forget me, but I didn’t want to know if she was really willing to.” His fingers curled tightly around the edges of the screen, and he sighed.

“Why am I telling you this? Because I wish,” he murmured, “that you’d talk to me, one more time. I _said_ I was sorry, those months ago for not wanting to listen. I’ve tried to listen to you since, but now you’re quiet. And I hate it,” his voice was low, “losing things. And I lost you. Seems I always do that with what matters. Part of being old, I guess. Part of being a Time Lord who plays with lesser species. I should know better. Most of Gallifrey thinks-” he gulped for breath, “–thought of my companions like pets. Like I’m some madman who keeps adopting stray dogs.

“But they’re not,” said the Doctor slowly. “They’re better than I am. They feel things so completely. They _do_ things, so completely. All their heart they throw into something, until they succeed or fail. I’m not like that. Too many things to do, too much time; or too little, depending on how you think of it.”

The process had already started. It was getting harder and harder to keep his mind on one track, and he was aware that he was starting to babble. 

“Did I ever tell you,” he asked faintly, “what I was offered for saving the Princess? Greatest reward of all. I was promised that I wouldn’t be alone anymore. Thing is, I haven’t been for a while.” 

_Because I had you_. He closed his eyes, fighting down a vague feeling of sadness. 

“I’ve got Rose,” he said aloud. “And yes, she’s human. And only about nineteen…ok, twenty technically. Legally, I might have cost her a year of her life; I was a little late in bringing her back. I think she’d say that it’s worth it, though. The travelling…she loves the travelling and the adventures and the running… And she’s fantastic. Really is. She did it all; absorbed the Vortex, got rid of the Daleks, saved me. Rose Tyler, the shop girl who saved the Doctor.”

He glanced at her, still lying unconscious on the floor, and he smiled.

“You would’ve liked her, Threnody. And she would have liked you. My mouthy computer. Not so mouthy anymore.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered one last time, bringing his hand up to CD drive. “I suppose I should have helped that Princess, should’ve figured it out a long while ago. Maybe I could have done it without your help, but I…” he paused, resting his head against the coolness of the screen, “I didn’t want to. I wanted you there with me for it, like you were all along. And now it’s too late. I’ll be a different man, soon… can’t know how these things go, who I’ll be. But some things are for some people, and maybe the man who could have saved her will be gone.”

He felt something brush his cheek; a feather-light, momentary touch. The Doctor managed to smile.

“That’s new in the regeneration process. Felt like someone gave me a literal air kiss… how about I pretend that’s from you; and maybe you accept my apology? I’m sorry that I couldn’t be who you needed me to be.”

It took almost all his strength to press that tiny button to eject the CD from the drive, and open the drawer that contained the other paraphernalia from that journey. Rory’s hat, the scrap of plaid from Jamie’s kilt. Even his handkerchief; he hadn’t been able to bring himself to wash it, and had instead stuck it with everything else. The CD glistened on top, bright and iridescent as a mirror; and he forced himself to close the drawer and turn away right as Rose woke up.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay. Before everyone shrieks (and threatens vengeance upon me), here’s the thing: my original prompt _was_ for Nine/River + Library fix-it.  
>  But… I realized after ‘Name of the Doctor’ aired that I was having a lot of trouble reconciling the Doctor in series 7B and his reactions, as well as River’s role in that episode. SO. This chapter can be considered the end of Part One. Part Two is already written (I’m just editing before I post), and it ultimately ends better than… well, I guess, better than anyone seems to expect this story to.  
> I’ve been incredibly nervous about posting this story in general, but rather specifically this chapter. At any rate: you guys are so lovely, those of you who read and review and kudos, and *fingers crossed* I hope people enjoy.


	17. Stars in Her Eyes

River wanted to scream. Or throw something, slap someone, slap _him_ … There were times that she could see quite a lot of Amy in herself, and this was one of them.

The problem was that she knew it didn’t matter. Because this was how he was always going to end, this regeneration. Saving Rose Tyler, after she had saved him.

Still, it hurt hearing him and being unable to do anything. It seemed she’d so often been there, for his endings. Berlin, the Pandorica, Lake Silencio… but then, at least they’d both been physical beings. Now, he was real and she was a ghost; and River leaned forward to gently brush her lips against his reflection in the mirror.

“That’s new in the regeneration process,” said the Doctor. “A literal air kiss…how about I pretend that’s from you, and maybe you accept my apology?”

“Always,” murmured River, her throat thick with unshed tears. “Always and completely, right? But don’t sound as though it’s good-bye, Doctor. It’s never really, because you hate good-byes.”

“He might hate them,” rasped a voice, “but on occasion, he does say them.”

River spun around to see the Sea Witch gazing at her with a terrifying smile on her wizened face. 

“How,” River faltered, “how are you here? This isn’t your story… I wasn’t even thinking of you! Can you do that?” she continued curiously. “Walk outside where Anderson wrote you?”

“Normal rules don’t apply to me.” The Witch paused, her head tilted to the side. “They’ve never applied to you either; though I doubt you entirely noticed that. Still,” and now she smiled, “I’ve come to you because I believe your time here is up. The Doctor is regenerating, he’s as good as said good-bye… and I’ve _enjoyed_ our little game, Melody. Have you?”

“Oh,” River shrugged. Her every instinct was telling her to run. That something was about to happen…

“It’s been interesting,” she answered, giving an insouciant smile, gently tucking the mirror into her pocket. “I’m not sure I’d say enjoyable.”

“Talking to the Doctor again? Seeing him run around to try saving you…” The Witch gave a little laugh, the sound of it emerging soft… almost musical. “What do you think of the outcome, my girl? Him practically giving up! Acknowledging that his next regeneration might not be the type of man who could save you… and I do have to ask, in the face of that. Do you think you’ve failed in our bargain?”

The thing was, by all intents and purposes: she had. If he’d stopped being able to hear her, was even entertaining the thought that perhaps he might no longer be the man could have helped; then it was tantamount to failure.

River Song, though, had never been one to admit defeat.

“He could still do the right thing,” River said stubbornly. “Figure things out. Did you know, he spent almost two hundred years running away from the fixed point of Lake Silencio? He’s that sort… sometimes he needs space to realise just how to do what he’s supposed to. And he doesn’t like feeling trapped…”

The Witch nodded thoughtfully. “He _is_ like that,” she murmured. “Such a stubborn one. The rest of the Time Lords weren’t like him; but for all our sakes, I suppose we’re lucky the Doctor is the way he is. Needing someone to force him into what he’s meant to do; and I truly thought you’d be the one to push him this time.”

“So then,” asked River, feeling her hearts beating a little faster, “you understand what I mean? And you see: I haven’t failed, I just need a little more time to work on him. 

“ _And_ ,” she added, “help him understand the rest of that poem. There were lines with no coordinates. How was he to figure those out?”

“Yes,” the Witch said slowly. “The poem. So much faith you’ve putting into that, into him knowing where to go… but how funny that you never thought that you both had tasks to fulfil. His were physical and yours were not… and maybe not everything in that poem was meant for the Doctor.”

It was a horrible feeling dawning on River, and her eyes widened, hands clenched into fists at her sides before she managed by sheer strength of will to relax.

“You tricked me,” said River. She was proud; her voice didn’t waver or show any other sign of her anger or worry. “You set me on some impossible mission, didn’t give me all the information…”

“Not impossible.” The Witch was shaking her head, a tiny smile on her lips. “And I didn’t trick you. I gave you what you wanted: a chance. You’ve done the best you could -better than you might realise- but there’s nothing more you can do like this.” 

Swiftly, she darted one hand out towards River, who flinched at the very real, solid feeling of the Witch’s fingers tight on her wrist. It seemed that suddenly she could see sparks alight in the Witch’s eyes. Tiny dancing flecks of gold within the darkness; and she tried fruitlessly to pull her hand away. The Witch chuckled merrily, leaning close enough that she could hiss into River’s ear.

“I hope that you didn’t forget the terms of our agreement? You had your part to play; but when it was over, you would belong to me. Your soul and your memories… because after all, what did the Doctor see you as?”

“He _couldn’t_ see me,” snapped River, still trying twist her arm out of the Witch’s grasp. It defied explanation how a fictional character within a computer world could be this strong; but it was impossible for her to get away.

“You were a voice without a face to him,” said the Witch flatly. “Something he could ignore when he chose… because that’s all that’s left of you, now. An echo. A ghost with no substance.

“But when you come to me,” she murmured, voice hypnotic, “oh, my Melody Pond. You will be so much more…”

Her grip was punishingly hard, and River let out a low cry at looking down, seeing tiny pinpoints of light dancing beneath the Witch’s skin, jumping beneath her fingers to River. It _hurt_ , like being filled with stars; and it was only the stern mental reminder that this world wasn’t real that finally gave River the strength to tug harder than living bones and flesh could have stood, before she managed to pull herself free. 

“You might know my name,” she spit out, rubbing frantically at her arm until the sparks faded, “but you don’t know me at all! Because if you did, you’d know that I’d never just accept something like this… why would I ever let someone tell me what to do when I can change things myself?”

The Witch began to laugh. She looked and sounded like a demonic thing from nightmares; the faint patterns of light swirling beneath her skin, her eyes a hypnotic whirl of gold as she laughed and laughed, ignoring River’s panicked look.

“Oh, you are like him, aren’t you! I chose well. Will you try to run?” she wheezed, clutching at her stomach and doubling over. “You never can. You belong to me now… and you always have. This was always meant to be.”

In horror, River looked down to see the spiralling lights begin again under her skin. They were on both hands now, creeping up her wrists, making their way past her elbows… Her face hurt, her cheeks were hot; and every time she turned her head, she could see sparks twisting along her curls. Glittering, shining hints of gold, flickering in and out like fairy lights.

“I think you’re trying to combine too many story ideas,” said River calmly, taking one slow step backwards. “And I’m not certain Charlotte was incorrect about having something wrong inside her head… perhaps Doctor Moon isn’t functioning correctly?”

“Doctor Moon is fine,” the Witch said. “As is Charlotte. I’m quite good, you know, at giving people what they need… and after I’ve taken care of you, I think that little Charlotte and I will have a bargain of our own to make.”

“Stay away from her,” River warned, still backing up one careful step at a time. “I’m not sure of what you are…”

“Oh, I’m something new in this world,” the Witch whispered. “I’m surprised it has taken you so long to understand that Anderson never wrote me! One day a line will connect and a link will be left open to let me in here so I could find you. Give you the opportunity to talk to the Doctor again, to save yourself the way you wanted…”

There was too much to focus on. Her hearts beating faster and faster, the golden sparks in rapidly shifting patterns beneath her skin that burned down to her bones… but she had enough presence of mind to hear the importance of that statement.

“Someone let you in?” asked River, gritting her teeth against the pain. “Then you don’t belong here. You’re like a…virus. Corrupting the database.”

“And,” she continued while still backing up slowly, hoping the Witch wouldn’t notice and try to stop her, “if something connected to let you in…then it stands to reason, that it goes both ways.

“Something can get out, too.”

In a way, she’d always been so much like the Doctor. Changing the world and running through time and space. Refusing to follow rules, forcing them instead to suit her motives. 

And she was like him now. When trapped and faced with a danger that she wasn’t sure how to defeat, she took his course of action.

She ran.

Fled across the landscape of the Library database, her mind seeking that link, the opening that had let the Witch _in_ and could let her out. There had to be something she’d missed before, some means of escape; and she sought every exit she could, running codes through her mind but so often coming up with possibilities that only led to dead ends and traps, as her feet tripped through the story pages.

She was starving and exhausted and shrewd and selfish, on a horse-drawn carriage leaving a burning Atlanta behind; thinking only of her own survival, the comforting presence of the man beside her who infuriated her yet always came when she asked, and the safety of home that waited if she could make it. She was in France at the barricades, throwing her hand in front of a bullet to save the man she loved even if he didn’t love her; gasping in shock and pain as life ebbed from her body and she died in his arms. She burst onto a field with a limpid-eyed girl and glittery boy before hastily backtracking from that one…tame vampires had never been her thing.

River stumbled through the folios of Shakespeare; urging her husband into murder and then wiping blood off her hands, spending some time as an imperious Cleopatra before the memories overwhelmed her – _he_ had always loved her in that sort of outfit- and she took off again.

She ran until she wasn’t certain any more of why she ran… except that River Song had always been a survivor despite the odds, and she refused to stop now. 

And then in a burst of light and bone-jarring pain, she found herself in Victorian London. Hovering in the shadows, crying softly because she _hurt_ as she hadn’t since she was alive; and watching three figures creeping closer to her, murmuring in familiar voices.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AN: for those who curious about River's literary references… She found herself as Scarlett (Gone With the Wind) and Eponine (Les Miserables). Twilight crept in there too... not sure why.
> 
> And I couldn't resist the Shakespeare references, for obvious reasons *cough*Macbeth at the Park Armory*cough*


	18. The Inhabitants of the House

They were like a parody of the Three Bears. One short and dumpy, one medium sized and lithe, one tall and shapely in flowing veils and skirts. The medium sized one carried a candle that she shone into the corners of the room; the short one walked with heavy stomps and deep grumbles; and the tall one moved with a sinuous, slithery grace. 

_Like a lizard_ , thought River with an internal grin as she realised just where she was, and who she was facing. Of all the stories in the world, perhaps luck was on her side that she’d ended up _here_.

“There is something here,” muttered the small dumpy man. “I sense a ghost?” He straightened up, snapping his heels together like a soldier. 

“Yes,” he said decisively. “A ghost, Madam, one with a giant head. I suggest that I deploy the grenades.”

“Don’t be silly, Strax.” Jenny sighed, still prowling the room as she moved her candle to flicker light over dusty bookshelves and under tables. “What'll grenades do on a ghost, hmm?”

“Blow it to smithereens, boy. Turn that ghost to dust!”

“Blow us to smithereens, more like! And it's a _ghost_ , Strax. It's already dust.”

“Be quiet, you two.” Vastra was standing in the centre of the room, so still she could be a statue. Obligingly her companions fell silent, and she waited one more moment before cautiously calling out: “are you there? No reason to be afraid. We won’t harm you.”

“I'm not afraid,” River said. But even she could sense how her words seemed to fall flat before her, as though they lacked the power to make it far enough to become audible.

“I can sense you, whoever you are.” Vastra walked on silent feet around the room, until she was standing right before River. “I feel I should tell you that where we are now is an empty house on Paternoster Row. The owner has put it up for sale, but asked that it be investigated as the previous occupants reported hearing someone crying… Which I suppose, must have been you.”

“Yes,” said River whimsically, “that would be a logical deduction. The Doctor always said you were better than Sherlock Holmes. Being green must give you special powers.”

Vastra paused, seeming as though she was listening hard. 

“I think I _heard_ something,” whispered Jenny, creeping closer.

“As did I,” murmured Vastra. “Let us see, my dear, if it will answer?

“My companions and I,” she continued, “are in the market for a house. With Strax to join us, we have quite outgrown my old one… Except that I am reluctant to purchase this one, unless I know that you are benign. I sense that you are not human… there is,” her tongue flickered out, tasting the air, “a certain electricity about you. Familiar… but quite unlike Jenny. Therefore, you are of some other nature. Furthermore, I can guess that however you’ve ended here as spirit but not body, you must feel lost and alone. I’m no stranger to that, myself.”

“Yes,” River said, “I know you’d understand how it feels to be displaced. You’re a lizard from the dawn of Time, and I’m a computerized fugitive from a database who lacks a physical form.”

“That wasn’t crying,” Jenny insisted. “I heard it; that was _talking_! Did you hear it, ma’am?”

“I did.” Vastra’s voice was stern as she brushed her veil back from her face. “If someone is here, please, make your presence known!”

“I’m trying,” River said, gritting her teeth and focusing all her thoughts upon trying to force them to see her. “It’s not as though I particularly enjoy being ignored!”

It was incredibly frustrating to not be able to force her will to be done. All that time in the database, she’d only had to think of something for it to happen… but River paused, suddenly feeling strange.

All that time in the Library, no matter the adventure she was on, she could feel that sense of wrong. Events happening in a world of timelessness… but there was something else here, twisting around her mind, wreaking havoc on her senses. She could feel the faintest glimmers of reality seeping in at the edges… and Vastra let out a sharp gasp, recoiling.

“It's not,” she hissed. “It can't be!”

“Madam?” Strax turned around, confusion written over his face.

“Did you see it, Jenny? Or you, Strax? Can you see her?” Vastra held her hand out, her expression wondering. “For just a moment I thought it was...”

River trembled; fear and excitement coursing through her veins as she reached toward Vastra and concentrated…

“It's a giant head!” Strax bellowed. “Retreat, Madam! I'll hold it off!”

“It's hair!” cried Jenny. “It’s hair… and I can see it too!” Fearlessly, she walked closer to River, the light from her candle gleaming dully off her cat suit.

“Professor Song?” she asked. “Is it…. But if you’re a ghost, then that means you’re… ‘ere, is it really you?”

“I think,” River managed to say, knowing this time they could hear her, “that I’ve never been so happy to see familiar faces 

Vastra began laughing, an uneasy frightened laugh that nevertheless had real amusement in it.

“I think,” she answered, “that we’re quite pleased to see you too. Whatever all this means.”

* * *

Madam Vastra did purchase the house on Paternoster Row; and it was something about the dynamic of those three –the Sontaran, the Maid and the Lizard Woman- that helped River manage it. Perhaps it was that they provided a bridge between the literary world and the physical, helped along by her real-life intimacy of them…? Because at first she’d thought she was in one of their mystery novels. ‘The Ghost in the Parlour’ had the same set-up after all… but this _wasn’t_ a book. It was real; she could sense time and events rushing inexorably around her as she never could in the Library.

And in the end, she didn’t really care how it had happened. Sometime in the future, she’d ferret out the why and how… all that mattered now was that her old friends had somehow managed to bridge the gap that led her slowly back to reality. 

In the beginning, the ability to meet them in trance was easiest -in a dream-setting they could all have substance- but soon, River found herself trying to stretch further out into their world, pushing her mind beyond the boundaries of what she’d thought possible before… and oh, but it hurt. Nerve endings on fire, her brain screaming as it tried to find a place to reside when she had no physical matter for it to dwell within.

But it was a _good_ hurt. A productive one; the itchy feeling of healing skin and the closing of a wound. She learned to control it in short bursts. Forcing her voice outward so she could be heard, concentrating hard on being visible… and the day that Jenny set her a place at the table, forgetting that she wasn’t really there, was one of the best in the world.

Still, it was an odd feeling. Because however all this had happened, there was still an element of being trapped to this brand of freedom. It would be impossible to feel anything else, because while her mind might be out of the database and she gradually learned to materialize in the house on Paternoster Row; there was part of her that still wasn’t real. She lacked a physical body; and frustrated, River floated through the halls. Brushing sword hilts and blasters with mostly insubstantial fingers, pacing beside the fireplace in the sitting room until –if she were a tangible being instead of an occasionally visible ghost- she might have worn a hole in the floor. 

Strax said nothing about her behaviour; indeed, Strax seemed to try in his own brusque way to distract her with tales of battles and crushing opposition, not realizing that his stories made her long for activity. And Jenny was kindness itself. Sweetness with an enchantingly gamine smile, a wide-eyed dreamer with a sturdy streak of practicality.

But Madam Vastra was different. It must, River thought abstractly, be something about her Silurian background. No one could beat them on their poker-face abilities; and when Vastra sat like a statue with only an occasional movement of her eyes showing that she was alive, it was impossible to know what thoughts were going through her head.

“I have a feeling,” River said, drifting into the solarium, “that you have something on your mind.”

“I have a great many things on my mind,” answered Vastra, seemingly absorbed with stirring milk into her tea and not looking up. “There is a Bengat living in Piccadilly that keeps taunting the local children, and something I suspect to be a nature spirit, attempting to enact the Great Hunt in St. James Park. 

“But currently, what occupies me is that today is a beautiful day outside in London. Bright warm sunshine, clear blue sky… don’t you, my dear Professor Song, wish to go outside and see it? Feel the air on your face, drink in the beauty of England in springtime?”

“How could I?” asked River tartly. “I’m haunting your house, Madam Vastra; this is where I got called to. I’m not sure I could even step outside… it might be impossible to materialize anywhere else.” 

Vastra snorted in amusement. “Professor Song, I never thought that you faltered in the face of difficulty.”

River sighed. “I forget sometimes,” she said, “that you know me as well as you know my husband.”

“He is an old friend, as are you. And sometimes,” Vastra paused slyly, “you can say things to friends that they might not want to admit for themselves.”

“Such as…?”

“Such as the fact that I think you are unhappy… or at the very least, not as happy as you could be. In truth: Jenny, Strax and I are very domestic. Our sphere of influence is here; and like the Doctor, you have never been good at being in one place… 

“Even with my companions and myself as distractions,” Vastra was deliberately not looking at River, “there is a growing sense about you that you are restless.”

“Isn’t restlessness the definition of ghost-hood?” River asked, her lips curving into a smile. “I don’t think I’ve ever heard of a complacent spirit, Madam Vastra.”

The lizard woman gave a merry laugh, peering at River with bright, shrewd eyes. “No, I suppose not. Still, I think that you would feel better if you at least attempted to venture outside our little home.”

“And go where? Do what exactly?” River held up her hands, focusing her attention upon them so that for a brief moment they flickered solid before fading insubstantial again. “Even if I were able to leave, then what? I don’t have a physical body. I can’t do anything, or effect anything directly.” Unconsciously, she twisted her fingers together before looking down with a faint smile.

“Look at me, wringing my hands like a proper ghost. I’ll be wailing and rending my garments next.”

Vastra actually laughed at that, leaning back in her chair to survey River with amusement for a moment.

“I think,” she said, trying to be serious, “that there is very little you are incapable of turning to your advantage, even now. And as for what you should do, or where you should go? I can’t answer that.”

“Not helpful at all,” muttered River. “Ordering your resident spirit out, but not giving me a hint…?”

Vastra looked away, shifting uncomfortably in her chair. “I do not know,” she said, “how much of your education was devoted to the Silurians? Not much, even in the 51st Century, I am certain. But there is something about my race… we are prone to greater flashes of insight and premonition than the human usurpers, though as always the case with clairvoyance, it is difficult to interpret the full meaning.” 

She leaned forward, eyes staring urgently into River’s. “All I can tell you, Professor, is that I have the sense that your presence among us is an indication that your adventures are unfinished, and there is still more for you in the Universe. And if you never take the steps to leave this house, it will all be for nothing.”

“You think I have unfinished business?” asked River.

“And how is the Doctor?” countered Vastra smoothly in a non-sequitur; and River frowned.

“How would I know? It’s not as though I’ve seen him.”

“Perhaps you should?”

The lizard woman’s entire tone and posture was a challenge as she threw out those words; and after a few agonizingly long minutes, River groaned.

“The Doctor told me before: never get into a staring contest with a Silurian. It’s not right that you don’t need to blink.”

Vastra shrugged. “Every race has its advantages.”

“How do you propose I find the Doctor, anyway? I don’t know where to look.”

“My dear,” said Vastra, looked immensely pleased with herself, “he travels in time and space. I’m certain that if you try, you will find him. And please don’t worry about us, here by ourselves!”

“I wasn’t going to,” retorted River, standing up to go. “I’m sure that if you need me for any reason, you won’t hesitate to give me a call to stop in for a cup of tea and a chat.”


	19. All About Him

In truth, River wasn’t sure of what she’d expected. The Doctor could –and did– travel anywhere, zigzagging through time and space and crossing his own timeline so frequently that she wondered how he avoided paradox.

And in turn, when she focused on him like he was a lodestone drawing her home… she did manage to find him. Always different hims, though, and never in order. Two, then Seven, then Three, then Six. River sighed as she stood in the TARDIS, watching his Fourth regeneration playing chess with K-9. Even as a ghost, she could never seem to get him in sequence.

“Master,” piped up the dog, “there is something in the TARDIS.”

“There’s nothing here,” the Doctor grumbled. “You’re trying to distract me because you think I might win this time.”

“There is a 15% probability of that outcome, Master.” K-9 paused, rear antennae wagging and ears rotating as the Doctor carefully selected his piece and moved it into position. “Now the probability is 9%.”

“I can still win,” the Doctor insisted, rather sulkily.

“If you say so, Master.”

“What do you think is here?” asked the Doctor suddenly. “You said something…what is it?”

“I…am not certain.” K-9’s head drooped sadly for a moment. “Whatever the presence is, it is benign. But I am sorry, Master, that I cannot give you more detail.”

“It’s alright, you’re a good dog.” The Doctor patted K-9’s head, the very placement of his hand carefully shielding the dog’s sensors from seeing what his other hand moved on the chessboard. 

“It’s benign, so no harm. And you can’t be expected to know everything… now, come on. Your move. I still say that I might win.”

K-9 carefully nudged a piece into place with his nose, before rolling back to survey the board.

“Checkmate.”

“No! How could you… did you cheat, K-9?”

“No, Master.”  
“But I made sure,” said the Doctor, “that I could mate _you_ on my next move!”

“Yes, Master. Except that when you cheated and moved your rook, you left the space open for me. Checkmate.”

The Doctor stared in shock at K-9 before starting to laugh; and River herself was laughing as she drifted away. As far as she knew, the Doctor never did manage to beat his dog at chess.

* * *

She drifted through his time-line, seeing him at his beginnings and his endings until she was finally able to find the key to specific faces. The first part was in remembering the stories, the ones she’d read about or been told.

And the second part was in just thinking of _him_. Who he was in each regeneration; because for the being the same man, he could feel very different indeed.

She watched as he travelled with Rose, as he fell in love with Rose; and to her surprise, it didn’t hurt as much as she’d thought it would. There was a thrill in knowing that the Doctor who had spent sleepless nights with Threnody telling him stories had become this man. One who was capable of love, the way she’d always known he was.

She watched as he lost her; she watched as he met Donna and Martha, and then Donna again. She watched Gallifrey return and then be lost –twice- until the third time was the charm and he finally played the role she’d always known he was going to in saving it.

And then she watched as he regenerated; and amidst the crashing TARDIS and his gleeful shout of ‘Geronimo!’ River let out one quiet sob.

_Her_ Doctor. Of all his faces, this one was hers. The one she’d married for the first time.

It hurt watching now. Felt too voyeuristic seeing her parents so young, seeing herself and her own courtship with the Doctor. And it didn’t help that she remembered everything that she was watching replay in vivid Technicolor before her. Each night-time adventure, each momentary brush of his hand on the small of her back and those tentative first kisses… it was wonderful to relive, but so painful at the same time. She couldn’t be there for too long before she needed a break and hastily fled back to Paternoster Row, either as a ghost or following a summons to meet in trance.

“How is our old friend?” Vastra asked, each time. “Is he well, the Doctor?”

“He is.” It was her stock reply; and correct. He was well. He was happy and revitalized… with his youthful face had come that light-hearted bumbling act, that constant surprise as to what his new gangly limbs were doing, his ready laugh and enthusiasm.

“And how are you?” Jenny had always been nothing if not perceptive; and River felt herself flush slightly.

“I’m…” She always paused before answering. Silurians had the ability to detect truth from lies; and despite being human, Jenny was equally as adept. Plus, she didn’t want to lie to them. They were friends; they’d been so kind…

“It’s alright, my dear.” Vastra hesitantly out her hand out, lacing her fingers through River’s. “We understand.”

“I don’t,” Strax grumbled. Jenny gave him a sidelong look and a discrete kick beneath the table, and the Sontaran shrugged.

“Well, I don’t understand what the man-“

“Woman,” supplied Jenny automatically.

“Big head-“

“Hair!”

“Is talking about,” continued Strax, ignoring Jenny’s interjections. “He can talk about the Doctor, but why not himself?”

“Herself,” Jenny grumbled under her breath.

Vastra didn’t say anything, looking penetratingly at River. “He still doesn’t see you?” she asked in a quiet voice. “Never… in all this time? You’ve been there for how long in his timeline?”

“Years,” admitted River. “I’ve been flitting around through all of his lifetimes, and sometimes his companions look around as though they see something move, or they hear something. But he never does.”

“How is that?” Jenny asked. “How doesn’t he see you? He loves you. Well,” she bit her lip, looking away in embarrassment, “loved.”

“Matters of the heart are never easy,” Vastra answered. “Especially when you think it is broken… just imagine what it is like when you have two.”

“I have two,” retorted River. “And I manage.”

But sometimes, she thought as she opened her eyes, back on board the TARDIS, she had to admit that she wasn’t always managing. For the first time in very long, she felt alone and had to face up to what she’d lost. Not just a body or a place in the outside world… but him. She’d lost him; and not in a way which was easy to accept. 

Because if their positions had been reversed, if it came down to her rescuing him? She would have fought. She _had_ fought, against time itself on top a pyramid in her attempts not to doom him. And if she had to do it all again, it would the same; she would do anything and everything possible to bring him back to her.

It was a pain worse than her physical death had been, these nagging, bitter thoughts that refused to leave. The idea that perhaps, despite his actions to the contrary, he didn’t feel the same way for her that she felt for him. Perhaps he was happy with her ending? It had been his Tenth self who had seen her perish at the Library; an earlier Regeneration than the one currently running gleefully around with her parents and herself and seeming to give no thought about the eventual fate of River Song.

Perhaps he didn’t care that much about her. Perhaps he genuinely thought that what he’d done was in fact the best that he could do, and he didn’t plan to do more.

In some ways, River mused, being in the Library in the days before a Witch and a bargain had been easier. There hadn’t the chance to see him, there; and when she was with Charlotte and the rest of the children, she’d almost had moments when she’d forgotten the outside world.

Though not him, never him; and she found herself wondering as she hadn’t for a long time: _if he loved me the way he seemed to, how could he just forget? How could he leave me there, and not even to say goodbye? He does that, he hates those words; but it’s me. I never thought he’d treat me the same as just another companion._

But of course, she knew the answer. The key to her watching his specific faces had been in knowing who he was, where he was mentally… and this face, this adored and youthful face was one that loved deeply. But he was also the one who, like a defence mechanism, chose to forget the past in order to move forward.

Until he didn’t, anymore. Until everyone had gone –including her, off the Library– and he was alone. Completely and properly alone for the first time in ages; and before her eyes, River saw his ebullient, manic act slide from him until he was curled up on the floor of the TARDIS. His face screwed into a scowl, tears dripping down his cheeks… and River’s hearts twisted in pity at the grief etched into his features.

“Oh, sweetie,” she sighed, sitting down next to him. He squirmed a little, not responding; but she wasn’t surprised. In all the time she’d drifted in and out of his timeline, he never had been able to see or hear her. Even though she’d noted abstractly that she always seemed stronger inside the TARDIS, it never seemed to matter. Wherever they were, inside or out of his ship, he never did acknowledge that she was there. 

And maybe she wasn’t to him. Because she’d tried talking to him, before. After Rose and Donna… during that two-hundred year headlong flight from Lake Silencio, when he was running from his own future. Whenever he was heartbroken and lonely, she’d whispered words of comfort that had been ignored. 

She had stopped trying eventually. It hurt too much that he couldn’t hear her; but her hearts would have to be stone not to try comforting him now. Maybe he could feel her love and sympathy even if he couldn’t hear her words.

“It’s not the end of the world,” she continued, resisting the urge to reach out and stroke his hair. She was still a ghost after all. It wasn’t as though she could do anything physical, even now. “I know everything seems bad, but… you’ve had times in the past when you thought your life was so miserable you’d never survive. But then you always did. You found a way to move on, find new things and people to occupy yourself.”

He hiccupped, letting out a plaintive moan and not moving one inch.

“I almost forgot how much work you are when you’re young,” River sighed after a few very long moments had passed. “Alright then, keep lying there. It’s not as if you can hear me anyway… you’re ruining your suit, though,” she warned. “Pity. I always thought you looked hot in that.”

The Doctor sat up abruptly, pushing his fringe out of his face with one trembling hand before brusquely wiping his eyes.

“I think,” he whispered into the room, “that I need a little change. It’s too bright in here. What do you think, old girl?” Without waiting for a reply of any type, he hopped to his feet, quickly hitting random switches on the console until the desktop darkened to a grey and even the ambient lighting dimmed.

“Not different so much as dark,” River said. The Doctor frowned.

“What do you think?” His hand stroked the side of the monitor. “Do you like it? A new facelift for you?” The TARDIS gave a disgruntled hum.

“I’d suggest,” River said helpfully, “that you try raising the interior chiaroscuro circuit, just a bit. She prefers it when you can see what you’re doing in here. You make enough mistakes with navigation…”

His face went blank, fingers tightening on the sides of the screen.

“Well, I like it,” he muttered. The TARDIS gave a groan, listing momentarily to the side and turning off the gravity until he scrabbled for the interior controls. On the dark walls, small roundels of light emerged, and highlights of silver Gallifreyan script etched themselves as the TARDIS levelled out, and the Doctor sighed.

“Alright?” he asked, patting the monitor gently. “If you didn’t like it, all you had to do was say so.”

“She did. Not her fault,” said River, “that you don’t listen.”

He didn’t answer. Just turned away, stripping off his bowtie and stowing it in a box within the console before padding dejectedly toward the wardrobe.

“Other way,” River called. “Or shall I ask her to switch the room designations to suit you?”

He stopped and looked around for a moment before doing a rapid about-face to walk in the opposite direction. River followed him, leaning one hip against the doorframe as she watched him pull off his suit jacket as though it offended him, reaching instead for something… purple.

“I remember that,” River said thoughtfully. “That coat… Wasn’t I there when you got it? Yes! I was. Remember, the market on Akhaten?” She was babbling, a trait which had always been more of his domain. “You had to get it altered to take out the third sleeve… but you were so insistent on having it, just because of the colour.”

He paused, his hand hovering over the coat as if undecided whether to wear it or not; and River couldn’t help herself. She tentatively put her hand over his, and felt his body heat against her fingers blazingly, reassuringly hot. His hand twitched, and for just the briefest instant, she thought she felt his thumb stroke against her palm. 

She held her breath, wondering if it had been an accident, wondering if he’d do it again… but he sighed, roughly pulling the coat from the hanger and putting it on before turning away as if he didn’t even notice she was there.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So the friend who requested this story wanted Four or Nine… obviously I picked the latter, but I couldn’t resist slipping Four in there, just for a moment…


	20. A Thousand and One Nights

The Doctor was losing track of time. That was the thing about being a Time Lord. You could feel the movement of planets around you, the rotation of the sun, the little pangs inside your body as stars were born and burned and died. You could feel the passage of time, pressing in around you.

But your own personal timeline was always that: personal. And he wasn’t certain of how much of it he’d spent alone in the TARDIS, after Darillium. Years? Decades? Centuries, maybe. At first, he didn’t want to leave until it hurt less. Until the memories of what and who he’d lost weren’t as painful, until he could pass a full twenty-four hours without thinking of her…which was difficult, because River Song was never far from his thoughts. 

He’d had a long life -some days it felt too long- and there had been moments when his brain reminded him of something forgotten, his conscience intervened or even occasionally mocked him for his ego… There was a shadowy little voice in the back of his mind that seemed to always be there, and it wasn’t until meeting River, until losing her that he realised… it had always sounded like _her_.

So perhaps: now that she was gone, it wasn’t surprising that his imagination filled in an image to her voice. His grief and loneliness made him hallucinate that he could see his wife like a pale ghost flitting around his TARDIS… could hear her voice full of innuendo and flirting and amusement, constantly, incessantly talking to him. Making commentary, cracking jokes, telling him stories at night when he lay awake, eyes burning with unshed tears and throat so tight with loss he couldn’t manage to get any words out.

He didn’t want to leave until it hurt less. And after a while, as more time passed, he didn’t want to leave, _because_ of that.

He had done this before. After the Time War: hiding because of the pain he felt over what was gone that he could never fix; licking his wounds and hoping that time would heal all, while being certain that it wouldn’t. And he knew she was right when after a while, she began to urge him to go out, do something.

_Don't be alone, Doctor, you promised..._

He fought with himself not to whisper back into the empty room: _I'm not alone. You’re here._

But he never did.

If, the Doctor thought sometimes, he ventured outside the TARDIS, if he went out and found a new companion to travel with… just like with Rose, he would eventually feel better. He would regain that sense of wonder at what the Universe offered, and he’d start to forget and move on.

The thing was: he didn’t want to forget. Not anymore; there were too many things that he’d put aside and refused to think about. Gallifrey. Donna. Astrid and even that girl –Lorna, was it?– at Demon’s Run and his Ponds, both of them. Places or people where despite his best efforts, he hadn’t been able to save them; or at least hadn’t saved them in a way he’d deem satisfactory.

And River was another one. He’d made a commitment to rescuing her when she needed it… but that last time, she’d saved him and consequently he’d lost her. And he didn’t want to forget that, forget _her_ , not ever.

So he hid inside the TARDIS. Tinkered with things that didn’t need fixing, caught up on the reading he’d been neglecting for centuries, went for half-day long soaks in the pool… and through it all, he kept his ears open, just listening to River’s voice.

He never answered, though. It was one thing to acknowledge that his mind was playing tricks on him, letting him see and hear what he most wanted to; but it would be completely different, answering someone he knew couldn’t be there… even if sometimes, she seemed so real. There were moments when she laid a hand on his, brushed a gentle kiss on his cheek; and he swore he felt .

* * *

River found, alarmingly, that years of marriage did serve to turn you into your spouse. It wasn’t that it condensed your individual habits into one, gave you a similar turn of phrase or mannerisms.

No, in this case: she had usurped the Doctor’s way of talking. Because he might have been staying completely, utterly and uncharacteristically silent; but the more time that passed, the more _she_ couldn’t stand that forlorn air of quiet surrounding him. So she talked. She followed him around the TARDIS, talking her head off about anything and everything that came to her mind.

“You know,” teased River softly, “for a Time Lord who always claimed you don’t need sleep, we do spend a lot of time in bed.” She was stretched out next to him, lying over the covers while he was huddled underneath with only the tip of his head poking out.

“I suppose,” she said, “we never really spent much time _sleeping_ though, did we? Can’t say I regret that. But it’s such a beautiful day today, down below in the real world. Did you realise, somewhere far below us it's nearly Christmas? One of the proper Victorian ones you always loved.” She laid her hand lightly against the top of his hair, her fingers no more than a soft gust of air against his fringe; but he shivered as though he was cold, burrowing his head down a little more into the duvet.

“You ought to drop in on Madam Vastra,” continued River. “Jenny loves decorating… I think that tree is at least 10 meters tall, and decorated with fairy lights.” She chuckled. “ _Real_ fairy lights; those miniature lanterns from the Court. Do you remember going there, my love? First, last and only time you drank wine in this regeneration… and you knew the rules, Doctor: never eat or drink in the Fairy Kingdoms! You were quite lucky that I was there. Titania wanted to keep you... and yes, I know. It’s special to be fancied by a Fairy Queen…

“She couldn’t have you, though. You were _mine_ , sweetie; and I was willing to fight for you.”

She laughed softly, remembering what had happened. The Doctor, tipsy on fairy wine. Her, with one arm looped around him to keep him upright on his feet, the other waving her blaster as she hissed: ‘One more step from any of you, and I will blast you into dust that no amount of clapping will resuscitate.’

“Oberon never did forgive me,” she murmured, “for shooting his throne. I tried to apologise later - and it’s not as though he never did ridiculous things for love! Making his Queen fall in love with a donkey… Well,” she sniffed, “I suppose a certain Time Lord doing a dance like a Drunken Giraffe gave him that idea.”

The Doctor pushed back the covers abruptly, and River giggled. He looked grumpy, face screwed up into an indignant pout… and if he could hear her, she knew he would have had some retort to make. 

But he didn’t say anything. Merely stared up at the ceiling wordlessly; and River sighed, wriggling closer to him. Almost, but not quite touching.

“I think, Doctor,” she murmured, “that it’s time for you to stop sulking. It’s been ages, sweetie… and you’ve done this before. Tried to shut everything and everyone out; though, you’ve never tried hiding out on a cloudbank, that’s new. I do wish you could hear me. Because talking at you like this… it reminds me of-“

River stopped, mid-sentence. _It reminds me of what happened with Threnody. You never could see her, and then you stopped hearing her. **Me.** You stopped hearing me._

Painful, the way her life came in cycles. Once, she’d sacrificed everything not to face a day when the Doctor didn’t know her, only to come up with a Doctor who didn’t know her and couldn’t see her. And now, she was facing a Doctor who knew her alright, but couldn’t see or hear. There were times it felt deliberate, his blindness and deafness where she was concerned; and that was what hurt most of all.

“Never mind,” she said aloud, blinking her eyes hard to get rid of her tears. “I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised. Someone told me once that you’re not good at hearing or seeing what you don’t expect. She was right; even though she was…well, whatever she was. 

“I _thought_ she was a character from a story,” River continued. “Met her in the Library. It was an interesting time in there. Fascinating, in a way. I don’t suppose you’ll be surprised when I tell you that the first books I went into were in the history section. 

“Yes,” she sighed, “I know. I’m _such_ an archaeologist.”

He rolled over so that he was facing away from her, and in some ways, it was easier to keep up her running monologue without seeing his face.

“What was I saying?” asked River conversationally. “Oh, yes. History. Well, that’s where I went first. But I didn’t enjoy it very much, after a while. Takes the edge off when you can’t change anything. It was more fun, disrupting literature… as long as everything ended the correct way, I could do what I liked within those pages.

“And after my team paired off to make their own lives, I spent more time with the children. They loved fairy tales; so for a long time, those were the only books I visited. I suppose I have a confession,” she whispered, dropping her voice lower. “I went there with the children… but secretly, I loved them too. Did I ever tell you that? I can’t remember. I always knew you liked them… said that in the end, that’s all we are. Stories, just like fairy tales. And who wants to read a bad story, so might as well make it as good as you can.”

River smiled, reaching out to stroke her finger against his cheek. She’d grown bold, after all this time. He couldn’t hear her, never seemed to notice if she was there… so why not an occasional touch? He certainly never seemed to notice those either.

“I suppose we all dream of that sort of thing,” she mused. “Someone to save, wrongs to right. Quests with trials and tribulations, a daring rescue, true love’s kiss conquering all… and at the end, everyone lives happily ever after. It’s too bad that life never works out that easily, does it? There are horrible things that rip out your hearts and leaves them to bleed… but the good things, Doctor. The good things and people out there… you know, you told me that once. There are amazing things out there in the world, and amazing people to go with them.

“And you,” she whispered, leaning close to him and brushing her lips over his cheek, “are far too amazing to act like this. You always have been, Doctor…it’s why I saved you.”

She waited, not knowing why she was waiting. If he could hear her, she knew he would have answered. But he never did, and he still didn’t now. He only pulled a pillow into his arms, pressing his face into it; and she closed her eyes for a moment.

He used to hold _her_ like that. Their legs entwined, his arms tight around her waist and face buried into her curls. She couldn’t help it; she curled her body around him, resting her cheek against his shoulder. It wasn’t the same as it used to be… but it helped, a little.

“I know it always hurts you to remember what you couldn’t fix. And I know you’re grieving…” she mumbled, her lips close to his ear, “but the way to grieve for _me_ isn’t by staying in the TARDIS the rest of your life; it’s just not what you do. _You_ change futures and rescue those who need saving. Even if you think –like I’m sure you’ve been thinking since Darillium- that the world and its inhabitants are better off without you… oh, I know you, Doctor. I know how you think when you’re unhappy.

“And you’re wrong. You do amazing things for the places and people you love… so won’t you go out? Go to the house on Paternoster to see Vastra and Jenny and Strax. Go see something or do something… save--”

_Me_ , she suddenly wanted to say. _If you seem so lost without me, then why don’t you save me?_ But something in her said that this wasn’t the right time yet. This Doctor, sullen and soaked in grief and pity wasn’t the sort who could save a stranger, let alone his wife.

“Someone,” River finished smoothly. “If you found someone who needed it, wouldn’t you do that? If I asked?”

He didn't say anything for a long time, and River lay with her cheek against his shoulder. Feeling his warmth through the thin fabric of his shirt, the faint thuds of his heartbeats echoing through his body.

“I miss hearing your voice,” she whispered, more to herself than to him. “My Doctor never shuts up… I wish you were him.”

The Doctor shifted, letting out something that was either a sigh or a sob, and sat up abruptly. “I think I need a cup of tea.”

His voice, unheard in the TARDIS for so long sounded scratchy from disuse; and River’s mouth fell open in shock. She watched him stand up, shoulders stooped as he shuffled to the chair on which his jacket had been haphazardly thrown.

“Out of milk though,” he muttered. “Have been for ages. Guess I should go down the shops.” 

“There's a tin of Awed’s galaxy-famous condensed milk in the pantry,” River offered. “I think it tastes fine, but you always did hate the colour. Said milk should never be sparkly. Or green.”

He swallowed, eyes darting furtively around the room, seeming -or so it felt to River- to avoid the bed she was still lying on.

“My old girl can do anything,” said the Doctor, head down as he tried to balance on one foot to yank on his socks and fumble into his boots, “but she’s never gotten the hang of preserving normal milk in any sort of stasis. What is in Earth cows anyway; and why does tea only taste correct with their milk?

“Right.” He swept a battered top hat on his head, giving his reflection a quick once- over in the mirror. River stood up, coming to stand behind him, and he gulped again nervously.

“I'll be back,” he said, staring straight ahead at their reflections. “Five minutes.”

It was hard for her to hide her smile of relief. Maybe he couldn't see her or hear her. Maybe, he'd been ready all along to re-join the land of the living and she'd had nothing to do with it.

Still. Something about this tasted faintly of victory. The Doctor, putting aside his sulking and being the man she loved again.

“I’ll wait up,” promised River.


	21. Resurfacing

_Once_ , the Doctor thought to himself, walking down a snowy street in London, _I swore that River Song wouldn’t force me into anything_. A pity that never had been true. He was here, back on Earth, making the pretence of re-joining the world because she wanted him to. Hallucination or not, when his wife gave him that sidelong glance and made a whispered suggestion… it wasn’t as though he could have prevented himself from doing what she asked.

He wasn’t sure why everything with River always came down to that. She wasn’t fully human, but occasionally she could be _so_ human. Rational and irrational. Full of emotions, ruthlessly practical and not above a little emotional blackmail for him to do what she thought he should.

At least, he’d always called it blackmail. River –laughingly– had used the word encouragement.

Still, he was trying. And he’d come far since that first trip, where the relentless flow of humanity had him in tears, even before he reached Vastra’s door. It had been too much; people laughing and crying and living and loving and moving on with their lives, when all he wanted was to stand still and grieve.

But that had been weeks ago, by now. And even it was painful each and every time, forcing himself outside the TARDIS; it grew easier. He liked the amusements and distractions derived from visiting Vastra and Jenny and Strax; and he’d always loved Victorian Christmases (so much so that he’d visited nearly thirty times in the past)… but it still hurt, like salt in an open wound. He couldn’t act as though he was the same Doctor as always, because he wasn’t. Deep inside: his mind and hearts felt blank of all emotions and far removed from the living, no matter how he persevered at popping into Paternoster Row for three minutes, then five, eight, ten… Each successive visit grew longer, but he felt the same. Empty. Uncaring of how the world was, if it was in trouble.

“Well,” said a little voice. A half-remembered, but very familiar little voice… and the Doctor spun around in surprise.

“Well?” he said nervously, fingers clenching into fists in his pockets.

“Well,” said the imp, with a hint of satisfaction. “Look who is out and about!”

It seemed it had been forever since he’d seen it. Years, hundreds of years since Floor 500. He was quite literally a different man now; had been two different men, really. And yet, it looked exactly the same. Sweeping green hair around a small figure, large black eyes in a pointed green face, lips pursed indignantly and eyebrows raised.

“You’ve been gone a long time?” said the Doctor, his very uncertainty making his statement emerge as a question. “Thought you’d given up and gone away.”

“You mean, you hoped I’d gone away,” the imp said flatly.

“No. Yes. Maybe?”

“Clear as ever, Doctor.” The imp sighed, pushing a lock of hair behind its ear. “I’m rather pleased that after all this time -all that running- that you still remember me. And I’ve always been around… I think you just chose to ignore me for quite a while.”

“You haven’t,” insisted the Doctor, taking a step closer to it. “I’d have seen you. And of course I remember you! Can’t forget anyone so short or green… but still, I haven’t seen you since Rose…”

“Mmm.” The imp eyed him. “You don’t always see what’s right in front of you, Doctor. One of your failings… or part of your charm?”

“Charm, definitely.” The Doctor puffed out his chest, offering a weak smile; and the imp shook its head.

“If you say so…”

“I do. And what are you doing here now?”

The imp hesitated, looking away shiftily. “Just checking in on you,” it finally said. “Seems we keep meeting like this, Doctor. On the streets of London, you in a depressive funk… and how are things going for you?”

“Oh,” the Doctor said vaguely, “well. Quite well.”

“Really?” The imp crossed its arms. “Could’ve fooled me.”

“Then why did you ask?”

“Because I was curious what you’d say.” It licked thin green lips before smirking to show a row of small pointed teeth. “Wanted to see if you’d lie.”

“I’m not,” protested the Doctor.

“You are,” said the imp. “You always do.”

He did; so he didn’t reply. Just crossed his own arms, leaning back against the rough walls of the alleyway to peer curiously at the imp.

“That’s not really why you’re here, is it?” he asked accusingly. “Just to check on me. You’ve got an ulterior motive… _you_ always do.”

The imp gave a delighted giggle. “You’ve finally gotten clever in your old age, Doctor. And you’re right. I told you that we always keep meeting like this –whenever you’re in such a state that you don’t want to do anything or help anyone– and it’s true. But do you remember the first time? I asked something of you that you’ve yet to deliver on.”

The Doctor groaned internally. Really; even after all this time, it wasn’t as though he could have forgotten.

“Again?” he asked, managing a polite smile. “Another Princess?”

“Same one. She’s still waiting, you know.”

He hesitated. “But it’s been… centuries. Wouldn’t she be old by now?”

“Her?” The imp laughed gleefully. “No. Are you old by now?”

“I,” the Doctor mumbled to himself, “am ancient.”

“Finally! At last we agree on something.”

“Oi!” He glared at the imp, who smiled unrepentantly back at him. “Don’t mock the Time Lord.”

“Yes sir!” The imp gave a cheeky salute. “No mocking of the Time Lord, sir!”

“And don’t call me sir.”

“Yes, Milord Time.”

“That’s worse,” sighed the Doctor. “Look; all that, it was lifetimes ago but of course I remember! The poem that sent me running around space, a Princess who did something brave but stupid, an annoying green imp as a guide, and a chatty computer-“

He broke off rather abruptly. His last regeneration had chosen to put those memories aside. His current one had been taken up with his Ponds and his wife; too busy thinking ‘ _run run run from the past and maybe it won’t catch up_ ’ to spare any thoughts for a promise made by a broken man, two regenerations earlier. But seeing the imp before him, even thinking Threnody’s name made the man he’d been back in 2004 and this entire situation seem very familiar.

“I _do_ remember,” the Doctor muttered. “Brain like mine, room for lots of stuff in there. Unless I forget… but I don’t forget things. Unless I have to.

“Though I do think,” he added, feeling slightly rebellious, “I’m not the man I was, then. And my help… it’s not something that should be given without some understanding of what I’m doing it for. You want me to save some Princess… but where is she? _Who_ is she? And how am I supposed to save her? Have you got another CD for me, with another ridiculous poem?”

The imp’s smile faded as it looked up at the Doctor seriously.

“It has been years for you, but the rules haven’t changed. I can’t answer those sorts of questions; it’s not my right. I’ve told you before, Doctor: you have to understand things on your own. My only role here is as your guide.”

“My guide.” He managed a pained smile, scratching his chin. “Didn’t even think to ask, but it’s been centuries for you too. How are you still here? How long do annoying green creatures live?”

“Forever if they need to,” said the imp glibly. “You, of all people, know the laws of time… if there is something you’re meant to do, death is hardly a barrier.”

“I wish,” the Doctor said plaintively, “that you wouldn’t speak in riddles.”

“But I thought that you’re brilliant at them?” The imp sighed, looking away. “I suppose I can tell you this, at least. Part of why I’m here, Doctor, is that I was given something by a great man; and when he sought me out afterwards and asked something of me in return, I thought I owed him.”

“What did he give you?” The imp’s words sounded almost like a trick; and the Doctor narrowed his eyes, squinting at the little green creature before him. 

“Something more precious than I thought my life was worth.” The imp shrugged self-consciously. “Hope for a new tomorrow.

“He said there were two options. Keep trading favours and arguing over who owed who what; or we could call it even if I did one more little thing for him. Pass along a message, act as a guide when you needed it; because,” the imp said wryly, “I couldn’t imagine the amount of people it would help. Literally the world…

“Have to say though, didn’t think it would take so long. Or that you’d be so difficult. You’ve been a prickly fellow in the past, haven’t you?”

“You say that as though I’m a porcupine,” complained the Doctor. “I’m not.”

“And I’m not annoying,” said the imp. “You really shouldn’t call me that. Far better words to describe me.”

He could think of a few; but each was far less complimentary and not used in polite society.

“The thing is,” said the Doctor slowly, playing for time. “The thing is… I don’t think I want to do that. What you’re asking for? Help someone. Run around the Universe again, for someone I don’t even know.”

“Doctor,” the imp said patiently, “you’d run around the Universe regardless. I do know you.”

“Yes, but not to suit someone else! If I choose to run, it should only be for me. Haven’t I done enough?” he pleaded. “All those times, all the things I’ve done and people I’ve saved in the past… isn’t it time that I can just say: ‘that’s enough. I’m finished.’” The look the imp levelled at him was a mixture of pity and impatience, and the Doctor blustered on.

“Maybe,” he said, gesturing his hands wildly, “I don’t care anymore about saving people. What’s that gotten me, so far?”

“You do get dramatic when you lie,” the imp said mildly. “All those words that mean nothing. You made a promise years ago, to help. I’ve left you alone for long enough; but fair is fair, and you owe me to try. You owe her, even.”

“How,” asked the Doctor cagily, “can I owe something to someone I don’t even know?” Encouraged by the imp’s blank stare he continued, confident that he’d scored a point in their little exchange.

“Alright, you won’t tell me anything helpful at all like where she is, or what I’m supposed to do. But at least tell me this: do I know her? Have I met her before?”

There was a long silence as the imp eyed him up and down, thoughtfully. “Yes,” it admitted. “You’ve met her before. And failed to save her in the past… oh, a few times. Sometimes, her very appearance concealed from you who she was…often, you didn’t admit her importance until it was too late. And then the memory of those days burned themselves into your mind until you could never forget.

“But this time, Doctor, is the most important. This is the time that you actually _could_ save her to wipe the slate clean from the times you’ve failed.” The imp spoke with a quiet fervency and solemnity that was meant to impress. In fact, thought the Doctor, the entire speech might have done if it wasn’t being delivered by a creature standing barely up to his chest, watching him with hopeful, bug-like eyes.

“Somehow,” the Doctor said, giving a carefully indifferent shrug, “finally getting an answer out of you wasn’t as satisfactory as I thought it’d be.”

Green lips pursed, delicate eyebrows drew together, and the imp _glared_. The Doctor shifted from foot to foot nervously. For something so small and green, it was a bit frightening when it looking like that.

“Alright,” it snapped, clearly at the end of its patience. “Alright, then! You want to be difficult, but you want me to be helpful? Fine. I’ll give you helpful.

“Do you ever think, Doctor, that maybe everything in the Universe has a memory? People and places… even,” the imp thoughtfully scuffed a bare green foot against the snow, “ _things_. Maybe everything remembers what it was or what it could be, what it’s meant to do. Echoes from the past into the present and the future… 

“Or maybe,” it added slyly, “the other way around. The future into the past.”

“That’s impossible.”

“Says the Time Lord.” The imp smirked. “I hardly think anything is impossible around you. Strange, mad things out in the world, you know. Strange and amazing people, too. If you only keep your eyes and ears open and are willing to take the chance, who knows who could drop back into your life to save you? Or maybe, you could save them.”

“And if I’m not?” The Doctor stared into the imp’s eyes, a stern frown on his face. “Willing to take the chance?”

“Then,” said the imp, “you’re not really the Doctor you claim to be. Not yet.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You guys. *squish* Thank you everyone so much for reading, and the positive comments.  
> happy Independence Day to the Americans, and happy -day?- to everyone else...


	22. Just Us Two

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't think I say this enough: but thank you guys so much, for your reception to this story. I'm glad people are still enjoying (and willing to follow it on the twists and turns toward a resolution.).

Pouting, he told himself that the imp’s jibe had been just that, an annoying thing to say to incite him into action. Because he _was_ the Doctor. He saved people and planets and did things… well, maybe not anymore. But that didn’t mean he couldn’t. Just that he didn’t see the need, right now. 

“Nothing wrong with taking a break,” he muttered to himself when he was back in the TARDIS after leaving a sharp-tongued, dark haired barmaid behind. Ruefully, he twisted his hat brim between his fingers, watching melted snow drip out to hiss onto the floor; and his ship made a little grumble.

“Sorry for the mess, dear,” said the Doctor apologetically, scuffing the water around with his toe.

“What, did you forget to wipe your feet?” asked River, materialising next to him. He didn’t reply, and she cheekily went on. “Trailing bits of cloud and water into the TARDIS… for shame, sweetie. Well, where have you been?”

“Didn’t realise how snowy it would be out there,” he said, speaking aloud ostensibly to his ship. “Should’ve worn different boots, because I ended up taking a walk. And I, err, met a barmaid.”

“That sounds like the beginning of a limerick,” murmured his wife. “Or a joke. While strolling London after dark, the Doctor met a barmaid…”

“We had a bit of trouble with the snow. Rather,” said the Doctor thoughtfully, “had a bit of trouble with a few snowmen.” If he tilted his head just _there_ , shifted his eyes to the left, he could see River’s reflection on the console. Saved him the effort of turning his head to look in her direction while still pretending he couldn’t see a thing.

“Snowmen?” asked River. “How much trouble can a snowman give you?”

“Funny thing,” remarked the Doctor idly, “but they had teeth. And, of course,” he said, feeling suddenly cheerful, “they weren’t _actually_ snowmen. The snow had a telepathic filter, had a…” he paused, “a memory. Like it remembered being a snowman in the past.”

He fell quiet, remembering the imp. _Maybe everything has memories, people and places and things. Echoes from the future into the past._

“She was nice,” he said abruptly. “The barmaid; she was a funny little thing. Cunning, when she managed to get me not to use the memory worm to erase her knowledge of me. And she felt…” he paused, searching for the correct word, “right. Familiar, I mean. Which is silly; not like I’ve met her before. I’d remember her.”

River had the faintest of smiles on her face. “You can always tell, can’t you? If they’d be right, travelling with you. I remember, you told me that once. Can practically see it in them… there’s always a familiar feeling, as though something in you recognises something in them.”

His lips tightened. He had told River that once, long ago. Trying to assuage what he assumed was jealousy about his past Companions… but she hadn’t been jealous, only curious about how there could be so many people in the world, and how did he know when he’d found a good one?

“I wondered how long it would take for you to find someone to travel with. Well. Don’t keep me in suspense; what’s her name?”

“Doubt I’ll ever see her again,” he mumbled. “Why would I? And I don’t want anyone to travel with me anymore. That responsibility, thinking of if something will go wrong. Waiting, almost, for things to go wrong. I don’t have the best track record lately. Saving people…” he gave a little shudder. “Amy and Rory and their… my...”

River held her breath; but he didn’t say her name. He never said it.

“I was reminded today,” he said softly. “Haven’t thought of it for years, but there was some one, a long time ago. I was supposed to save her, and I didn’t.”

There was a knock at the door; and both the Doctor and River jumped in surprise.

“Don’t know who that would be?” muttered the Doctor.

“Madam Vastra?” asked River.

“Vastra and the rest of them would call, they wouldn’t just come up here without warning.”

“Then answer it, won’t you?” River’s patience was wearing a little thin. The Doctor walked toward the doors, hesitated a moment before flinging them open, then prowling outside to see who was there.

“No one,” he announced, coming back inside with something rust-coloured and woollen clutched in his hand.

“A no one who wears a shawl,” commented River.

“Well,” amended the Doctor. “Someone. Who dropped this? And I think…” he brought it up to his nose, sniffing deeply; and River groaned.

“Please don’t lick it, Doctor.”

He scowled, secure in the knowledge that his face was still buried in the fabric and she couldn’t see it. He hadn’t been _planning_ to lick it, although his sense of taste was good enough to discern key environmental factors that might somehow escape the rest of his senses. Tentatively, he stuck the tip of his tongue out, letting it graze over the fibres… only to pull it back, grimacing and sputtering and wiping his mouth vigorously on his hand. 

River groaned again, watching him.

“Couldn’t help yourself, could you?”

“Tastes like sheep,” he muttered. “Yuck. I know: Victorian London, no washing machines… but Clara should’ve spent a little time cleaning that better.”

“Ah!” River pounced on the pertinent information. “Clara, is it? Lovely name. And don’t look so surprised, sweetie. It was obviously going to be your barmaid, following you up here. In fact, I’d go so far as to say that you will definitely see her again. And soon.”

His entire face fell, his shoulders drooped; and the Doctor walked away to flop onto a chair by the console.  
“Maybe,” he said, reaching into his pocket to pull out Amy’s glasses. “Maybe I’ll be ready eventually…”

_To let you go._ But no, he’d never be ready for that. It was why he deliberately didn’t reply to her but instead let it seem he was just talking to himself, because he was afraid of realising she wasn’t really there, that he was completely alone. It had been centuries but it still hurt with a painful rawness, like poking an unhealed scab.

River was dead. Her body had burned to nothing in the Library, the only thing left of her was an echo of consciousness preserved in a database that by now, must have faded into the matrix. But if he couldn’t stop grieving, he wondered how the TARDIS felt. He had lost his wife, but she had lost her child… and sometimes he wondered if this pale, chatty version of his wife who sounded so real, felt so real wasn’t just his imagination, but an interface called up by his old girl to comfort them both in their loneliness.

No matter what she was, this River before him was nothing more than illusion born of grief and longing. She had to be… and yet, he couldn’t bear to let someone real and living in. All he might have left was a memory, but he didn’t want to risk even that little bit of his wife completely slipping away.

“Maybe I’ll be ready eventually for a new companion,” he continued, pretending he hadn’t had that awkward pause in his speech. “Or to find all the people I’m supposed to save that everyone keeps nattering away at me about. Because, you know, I’m still the Doctor. Or I can be. I’m just taking a… sabbatical, that’s the word. A little rest so that if I choose, I can come back revitalized…”

“And anyway,” he continued pensively, “you don’t want anyone here, do you? It’s nicer when it’s just us… and I’m not ready for that to end.”

River stared at him in confusion, not certain of sure who he was talking to. The TARDIS or, well, her. Because even if it felt sometimes he was answering things she said, she knew that he couldn’t see or hear her… but her perplexity was ended a moment later when he brought one hand up to gently stroke the console.

“You said you hate the strays. So: no more strays, hmm? Just us. A lonely ship and her lonelier madman, talking to,” he gulped frantically, “himself.”

She fought the urge to smack him.

“Stop being ridiculous, Doctor.” She couldn’t help the sharpness in her voice. “She might have complained to you once, about your strays. But she didn’t mean it, exactly. She tolerates them because they make you happy, and I can tell you that she hates seeing you like this. And as for who you were supposed to save? There have been a few, haven’t there? Amy and Rory… well, that’s on both of us, no way to fix it now. At least they were happy in the end. And together.

“You do what you can, Doctor. You try; and sometimes you fail, and sometimes succeed. Remember JFK? Fixed point, and still you went. And that failure didn’t stop you from helping Rose, when you met her. Imagine if it had?”

He didn’t reply. He’d picked up a book at random –a dog eared copy of the _Phantom of the Opera_ – and held it, fingers absently tracing over the mask on the cover. River let out a sigh, deep and gusty and perhaps just a little frustrated.

“Alright,” she said. “Be stubborn. You’ve very difficult young, you know. Or old. You’re just difficult, my love. But I know you. You’re not going to be happy, staying here forever and evading the world. Eventually, you’re going to find something to make you react. Or someone… but if you want to pretend I’m wrong, I won’t stop you.”


	23. Written in Stone

Of course River wasn’t wrong. She rarely was… alright, thought the Doctor. Virtually never, his wife.

Because facing him, eyes challenging as she talked and talked around _why_ he’d have brought her up here to the roof instead of escaping another way, even why he’d made a point of needing an umbrella; was the someone River had foreseen. 

Clever clogs, he thought, climbing up the ladder and refusing to think about if she was looking up as she climbed and making judgements on his physique. A Cockney Barmaid turned Posh Governess. Pretty, despite that funny nose; sassy and spirited and different and maybe a little mysterious… because despite the fact that her use of the word pond had meant a literal pond, not a person-Pond, he was still curious as to how she’d known it was the word to use. The right word… and maybe the right girl. He hadn’t even needed to see River, smiling patiently as the girl came in, or her whisper of: _she seems like a good one, sweetie._

There was a thought in his mind, a prevailing feeling right as he handed her the key. _Hope_. That maybe having Clara and River’s echo both in the TARDIS didn’t have to mean that his wife would disappear if he found a new companion. That maybe things could be alright…

Except that they weren’t. River’s shout of warning was too late – Clara fell from the clouds back to London below – in anger, he severed the ties between the Great Intelligence and Simeon – and once more, he stood by a grave.

“It didn’t work,” he muttered. “Everyone nattering away at me. ‘Find someone to travel with, Doctor.’ ‘There are people out there for you to save, Doctor.’ Well, I did that. Found Clara; and look what happened? One more death on my conscience.”

“People die, Doctor.” Even without turning his head, he knew the imp was standing beside him, had crept up as if by magic to appear by his side.

“It didn’t have to be her.”

“Didn’t it?”

“I wish,” the Doctor said bitterly, “that you’d leave me alone.”

“Ah,” breathed the imp, “if only I could. What would you do then? Suffocate yourself in grief? You are a broody little Time Lord, aren’t you? Feeling each defeat so strongly…”

“She,” snarled the Doctor, “was not just some arbitrary defeat that meant nothing. Don’t you see? It’s like… he clutched the flowers he held tighter, “she’s one more life lost. Just one more who has slipped through my fingers… and I’m _not_ meant to do this anymore. Run around and try to save people. Who am I really helping, when I do?”

“You told her,” whispered the imp, “no more hiding.”

“I lie.” His voice was flat.

“Quite true; but don’t you owe her that dying request? She told you to run. And remember her.”

His face twitched. “I’ve been told that, before. Right before people die…River told me that, even.” He shut his eyes, tight, squeezing back the tears. “That I’d see her again, that we had a lot of running to do.” He straightened up, looking down at the flowers again in the hopes that those innocent blue-and-white petals would make unwanted images stop searing themselves into his mind. The grieving family standing over Clara’s grave. Amy, pale and shocked and determined as she said goodbye. River’s eyes full of love as she told him to hush… and then he shook his head, hard.

“What if I don’t want that?” he asked in a low voice. “What if I want it all to stop hurting whenever I remember their faces, their voices…What if I don’t _want_ to remember anyone who’s gone, not anymore?”

“And what if,” cajoled the imp, “I told you there were surprises out there in the Universe, Doctor? Wonders… miracles, even, waiting to happen.”

He scoffed. “I’ve seen the wonders of the World; I’ve even seen all seven hundred wonders of the Universe! I’ve seen amazing things and terrible things… but you know what I haven’t seen much of? Miracles.”

“Then maybe you don’t see what’s right under your nose. Stop and smell the flowers… or read words that are,” it chuckled merrily, “written in stone, shall we say?”

“Your humour,” snapped the Doctor, “is out of place here.”

“So is your pessimism. Save your breath; you’ll need it. You’ve got some running to do, people to remember…a Princess to save,” teased the imp, “whom you’ve met before?”

He had just turned with the intent of making a scathing remark, something along the lines of: _‘you choose to remind me of that, now?’_ when he saw Vastra and Jenny walking towards him and he swallowed down his bitter words.

Plus, the imp was gone, as though it had never been there. He really hated when it did that; and as he walked forward to place the flowers on Clara’s grave, something caught his attention.

Things written in stone, the imp had said. And there it was, right in front of him. 

Clara Oswin Oswald.

“I never knew her name,” he remarked to Vastra and Jenny. “Her full name.”

But now he did, and it made all the difference in the world. Because he could suddenly see it, could remember. Oswin, from back when he’d been with the Ponds at the Asylum. Soufflé girl.

“I never saw her face the first time with the Daleks,” he mumbled, “but her voice. It was the same voice; the same woman. Twice! And she died, both times.” He stopped, worried, before deciding that no, it didn’t matter that she was dead. The first time, maybe. But this was the second time; and oh, that changed everything.

“Something’s going on. Something impossible…” And he grinned, rubbing his hands together and remembering the imp. 

_What is really impossible to you? Strange things and amazing people out in the world. If you keep your eyes and ears open, are willing to take the chance, who knows who could drop back into your life to save you? Or maybe, you could save them._

His hearts were suddenly alight in a bumping four-step; and the Doctor ran back to the TARDIS filled with a sudden manic excitement. The imp was waiting for him outside the doors, green lips twisted into a wry smile.

“You seem to be in good spirits,” it commented. “Very different to the brooding Time Lord I saw five minutes ago.”

He grabbed its hands to twirl it around in a little jig, whooping in glee and lifting it straight off its feet.

“You said,” whispered the Doctor, ducking his head down to its ear, “that the Princess is someone I’ve met before and didn’t save. She wasn’t there on that battlefield, or the playground, or while running around in Scotland; but I think,” he went on, as the imp stared unblinkingly at him, “that now I understand. Quite long-term, asking me to try saving her back when I didn’t know her… but I suppose that if I’d done it back then, maybe I wouldn’t need to do it now?”

The imp opened its mouth, but the Doctor didn’t give it a chance to speak.

“No matter,” he said, carefully standing the imp back on its feet, sweeping it a little bow. “Time to move on. Got to find a Princess, wherever she’s been hiding. Time to find her and save her, at last.”

* * *

Except that he couldn’t. He searched _everywhere_ , all over the Earth and even some places that weren’t on Earth with the thought that if Oswin had ended up crashing into the Asylum then who knows, she could’ve been somewhere unexpected. He holed up in a monastery for a while to think; but even after finding Clara – _a_ Clara, not _the_ Clara; and really, he had to wonder how many of them there were- he was no closer to saving her. Or understanding anything about her entire situation.

“I thought,” he grumbled, fiddling with the monitor in the TARDIS, “that maybe where she was trapped was the Wi-Fi? But I got her out! And she still doesn’t know me… though at least she doesn’t think I’m a Mad Monk anymore.” 

“Sweetie,” said River, managing to hide her smile. “You’re still mad, even if you’re not a monk.”

He looked as though he was about to say something; but subsided in favour of bringing his face closer to the screen, his nose almost touching Clara’s image.

“It’s impossible,” he muttered. “ _She’s_ simply not possible, because how could she be? A 21st Century girl, who existed in the past, but seems to know nothing about it. Could she be a descendant…?”

“I doubt it,” River said, trailing along beside him. “A great-niece or something? Certainly not a daughter. Unless your Victorian Nanny had an illegitimate child and that’s why she gave out so many stories about her past.”

“But I’ve _met_ descendants of people I knew. Kate. And then in Cardiff, that Torchwood girl. Gwen Cooper.”

“Not the same thing,” River corrected gently.

“Not the same thing,” said the Doctor. River sighed.

“Sometimes,” she remarked idly. “I really miss the days when you could hear me, and we didn’t keep repeating each other.”

He ignored her. Far better, he told himself sternly, to think of the future. Don’t think of the past, the people you’ve lost. Move on; stop wanting to hear River’s voice, and maybe it’ll be alright, losing her. Because who knows what is waiting in the future? The imp promised, all those years ago. Save the Princess and you won’t be alone anymore.

“Only thing to do,” the Doctor muttered aloud. “Get her to come into the TARDIS, run a few scans…”

“Yes,” said River, “because that would work. _‘Please step into my snog box’_ ” she mimicked the Doctor with a deadly accuracy, “ _‘so I can figure out if you’re human.’_ Really, sweetie? I know you can make the most ridiculous request sound reasonable, but that’s a stretch for anyone.”

“There has to be something,” continued the Doctor, “that the TARDIS could read. Because…” He hadn’t said it aloud yet. Too superstitious, too worried, too absorbed in his own musings. But he couldn’t keep his thoughts in anymore.

“I think,” he said, his face still close to the screen, “it’s _her_. It’s the only thing I can figure that makes sense: she has to be the one I’m looking for. Long ago, there was this Princess I was supposed to save. I was told she did something brave and stupid and got trapped… Well, I think it’s Clara.”

River went suddenly quiet, not moving or saying anything; and in the silence of the TARDIS, the Doctor began babbling faster to cover that. Because it was one thing to say rationally that he didn’t want to hear her, reminding him with each word that she wasn’t there. 

But it was quite another, if she was really gone. He didn’t _want_ her to go; he just didn’t want to hurt anymore. And at her sudden silence, every last preservation instinct he had rebelled, every warning he gave himself about not acknowledging her faltered and then died as he surreptitiously peeked over his shoulder, oddly comforted that she hadn’t disappeared; she was just quiet.

“I mean,” he mumbled, “Clara Oswald; she saved me in the past. And well, except for the Asylum and the Wi-Fi bit, I can’t see how she’s trapped, exactly. But she’s still my impossible girl… died twice saving me and why? Maybe because I haven’t been able to save _her_ yet. She’s like the human version of Groundhog Day. The movie, not the actual day when the Americans prod that little rodent out of his bed to see if winter will continue. Ridiculous custom, basing the seasons on whether or not a groundhog is still sleepy.”

River made a little sound. It was a either a groan or sigh; he couldn’t tell, but without missing a beat, the Doctor kept talking.

“So she just keeps appearing, until I save her. Dalek Asylum, the barmaid in the streets, the governess… but I can fix it. I will fix it… and maybe,” he mused, “if she travels with me, that’ll work. Safest place in the Universe, my TARDIS. Nothing can happen to her in here.”

“You know, you say that like you really think it’ll work.” River’s voice sounded tired; and he stole a glimpse at her. She _looked_ tired. And sad.

“You tried that before, with Amy. Couldn’t understand the crack in the wall or why she was important; thought if you spirited her away the night before her wedding, it would solve things.” She managed to laugh. “Didn’t work though, did it? In a way, that only caused it to happen, Doctor.”

He pouted stubbornly; refusing to be drawn into disagreeing with her aloud or even acknowledging privately that she was correct. Perhaps that had been accurate… but Clara was different. She _should_ be different…right? History didn’t repeat itself so much. Except that it often did. He’d seen enough of it, meddled in enough of it to know that history and time were cyclic in nature. One wrong decision set off a chain-reaction of more and more wrongs which would eventually splinter themselves off into a parallel world or lead toward needing a reboot of the Universe…

Which he’d done, multiple times now; and would really have appreciated not doing again. It was rarely a good time for anyone involved… still, he refused to think that he could be wrong.

“Yes,” he finally said aloud. “Time and space; no one can resist that. And she wants to travel… that book she has. I know she’ll love it.

“And I will,” he added defiantly, “figure it out. How to keep her safe. Or save her. What do you think, old girl? Fancy another passenger here?”

River sighed. “She tolerates your strays, Doctor, because she knows you like them. But I’ll just mention: she’s always had very definite feelings about the impossible ones.”


	24. Echo

There is a tendency to fragment life into definitive eras of evolution; and while humans might think in terms of infancy and childhood, adolescence and adulthood, for the Doctor, measuring the ages of his life was never as concrete. 

He’d been a student on Gallifrey and a renegade travelling the stars before those younger incarnations were supplanted by a Warrior that he wished time would forget. He’d been a broken, drifting shell, drawn back to the land of the living by Threnody’s nagging comments and bedtime stories; and he’d been the Last of the Time Lords, resurrected in the years of love and friendship with Rose and Martha and Donna.

And then he’d been an honorary Pond in those glorious days when he felt nothing could hurt him, as he ran through time and space with Amy and Rory at his side; and the even more glorious nights with his wife…

No matter. Everything ends; even the most wonderful things must make way for something new. And now, whatever he’d been in the past, however he had summed up his life; this was now the time of Clara.

Which, thus far, had ended up being measured in Wednesdays.

He _could_ have jumped, leapfrogging from one meeting to the next, picking her up immediately after dropping her off. But that would have felt like cheating. It was better, reasoned the Doctor, to have a day in-between. A Friday, by preference. Sometimes even a Monday or a lazy Sunday afternoon put aside, not for adventuring but devoted to figuring her out.

Pity he wasn't making much headway. There was something familiar about her that went past his memories of Oswin or her Victorian persona. Something even beyond the fact that she was clever and funny, unsure of herself but still relentlessly bossy. He couldn’t put his finger on what exactly it was… but having her around made him feel better. Whether their time was spent in talking or arguing, planning where next to take her -or justifying when maybe they didn’t end up in Vegas but stranded on a Russian submarine instead- having some little mystery to solve about her reminded him that all life hadn’t ended at Darillium. 

He felt more like himself than he had for a long time. He was the Doctor with a mission again. Help people. Save people. Save _her_ ; because one small victory was better than dwelling on all those he hadn’t been able to rescue.

Like River. In fact, these days it was hard to have her presence in the TARDIS. After Darillium, he’d existed only _to_ hear her… but now, it felt like a reminder. He hadn’t been able to save her. His _wife_ ; and the best he could do was to preserve an echo, to sentence whatever remained of her consciousness to being saved like she was nothing more than a series of stories on a shelf.

But he couldn't have done otherwise, thought the Doctor as he resolutely turned away from her, concentrating on piloting the TARDIS away from the Maitlands. Four hundred years -give or take- between the Library and Darillium. Four hundred years to come up with an equal number of alternate solutions that were fanciful or impractical or just plain impossible, for him to face that there might not _be_ anything he could do.

Time lines; the problem was that he couldn't change his own. His Eleventh self had to accept what had been established by his Tenth; because if he hadn't -if he'd changed anything- it might have changed _everything_. The magnitude of her sacrifice in the Library, and how he saw her afterwards. The affection and guilt that coloured their every interaction; what she meant to him, and to each and every person whose lives she touched.

He'd promised not to change even one line... and the consequence was that he had to find a way forward in a world where she existed only in his mind and memories.

So it was better not to listen to her, to live for glimpses of her in the TARDIS and be eaten alive by his own inadequacies. It was _far_ better to think about Clara. Focus on Clara. Obsess –if he was honest- about Clara. He was more than half convinced she was the Princess from Threnody’s story, the one who did something to save her Prince and was trapped waiting for him; and he was equally as convinced that the best way to save her was to prevent her from being trapped at all.

* * *

“Right,” said the Doctor. "I think I might be ready for some answers."

One more Wednesday accounted for. The TARDIS back from the South Pole, Clara back at the Maitlands; and now he was standing by himself on the planet of the Rain Gods, aware that to all intents of purposes for any curious passer-bys, he was talking to himself. Except that he wasn’t, of course. The imp stood before him, one green eyebrow raised, and a slight smirk on its face.

“You've figured it out?" asked the imp. "Finally?"

“Well..." The Doctor shrugged nonchalantly before giving up his pretense of omniscience. "No, I haven't exactly."

The imp sighed.

"But it's not my fault!" protested the Doctor. He was trying not to whine. “Every week, I do the same thing. Pick up Clara, take her on an adventure. I watch her, and I try to figure out who she is and how I’m supposed to fix things, or save her… and then every week, I tell her goodbye and drop her off, then go reread that poem to figure out where next to go. 

“And it’s not _working_.” His patience broke, and his last word did emerge as a plaintive whine. “She’s still an enigma. In fact, this entire situation is like a mystery, wrapped in an enigma that makes no sense. Strange clues! That’s all I’ve got. That, and a drawer of memorabilia that makes no _sense_ -”

“Memorabilia?” The imp leaned forward intently, and the Doctor nodded.

“All those things from before that I ended up with. A piece of fabric, a wool hat, my handkerchief… and you know,” added the Doctor, “I’m normally quite good at putting puzzles together.”

“Clearly not all the time,” the imp murmured.

“I was the Puzzle Champion of Gyll! Three times in a row, until I lost to that chap from Neisa with sixteen tentacles.” The Doctor flexed his fingers reflexively. “That number of appendages does mean you have an advantage over someone with just two hands… anyway, point is. I _am_ good at puzzles. Solving the tricky bits. But this one doesn’t make sense. Still! I’m not sure how any of those things connect to each other; let alone to Clara.”

They were walking aimlessly through the terrain of the planet. Rather, the Doctor was walking. The imp was scurrying alongside, needing three steps to his every one; before it finally stopped, breathless, to stare up at him.

“I think,” the imp said, “that sometimes you are remarkably blind, Doctor.”

The Doctor pouted. “Rudeness,” he said haughtily, “from small green things is not acceptable.”

“It’s hardly rude,” retorted the imp, “if it’s true. Have you always had trouble distinguishing the forest from the trees?”

“Oi! I didn’t come here to be insulted.”

“No? Then why are you here?”

There was a weighty pause. The Doctor shrugged, fiddling with his lapels for a moment.

“I think I’ll find something here that’s useful. I… umm. I asked someone for some help.”

The imp grinned with a sharp flash of teeth. “Did you now?”

“Not who I used to ask.” The Doctor ran a shaking hand through his fringe. “Not Threnody.”  
In the weeks since he’d met Clara, since he’d become convinced she was the Princess he was searching for, he had spent time idly flicking through the things in a small drawer beneath the blue stabilisers that hadn’t moved when he changed the desktop. But the CD was different. That he left where it was, trying not to even touch it because the mere glimpse of it made him think of Threnody.

Ridiculous to miss a computer program, and more so to feel as though she was just another person he’d lost. But perhaps, not so silly. She’d felt real, to him. She’d been a person –a friend, even– when he’d needed one. And he still wasn’t alright with the fact that she’d vanished, that he’d never heard that clipped computerized voice again.

She’d never even told him goodbye! Well, he didn’t like goodbyes. Maybe she’d known that… but there was still an irrational little part of him that wished that she’d at least tried to say it, instead of just going away forever.

“I asked the TARDIS,” admitted the Doctor. “Thought that maybe she’d know something I don’t… so I asked her to take me to the next place I should go.”

“And she brought you here?” The imp looked around. “Not much to see.”

“Bunch of natives with a complex religious system, an ozone-rich atmosphere with remarkably verdant crops, just off the Wallingford system. No; not much to see.

“But the real question for you is: am I in the right place? Is…someone… important here?” The Doctor gave the imp a knowing look and an encouraging smile. The imp frowned.

“I’ve told you before-“

“Yes, yes. I know. No help. You’re just my annoying little guide.”

“And I’ve told you-“

“Yes, yes,” said the Doctor distractedly. “You’re not annoying. Sometimes I think I’d rather have gotten Jiminy Cricket; at least he could carry a tune.”

“I’m insulted that you think I rank below the level of a talking insect,” the imp muttered. “And for you being here…” It shrugged, looking uncomfortable. “I hate it when you improvise.

“Doctor, there’s no one here who actually needs your help. But there is…” The imp paused, a decidedly cagey expression on its face.

“If you walk in that direction, about a quarter mile, you might find something you didn’t expect. Whether or not it will help is entirely up to you… I’d suggest you make a plan in advance.”

But he didn’t need a plan, thought the Doctor, jauntily walking down the road. He’d never needed a plan when he was following the coordinates. Whatever surprises had existed, it all came down to see-and-react…except that this time, his reaction times were a little slow. Because this time the surprise waiting for him was his wife.

River Song: hale and healthy and flirty and nagging and _alive_. It was easy, too easy, to fall back into their normal patterns. To nod when she wanted to compare diaries and laugh that yes, this time they did seem remarkably linear; to lie that he'd just stopped by to see her on her excavation dig and offer to take her to dinner.

But he looked at her and saw a ghost; and in the end, that was almost their undoing. Because he was so distracted by her that when they ended up nearly being burned as a sacrifice, he couldn’t even manage to get his thoughts together enough to come up with a clever plan.

(It was good he was lucky. Sometimes, all he needed was luck, an umbrella and a knowledge of geological patterns.)

But the Doctor was shaking after he’d dropped her back at Stormcage. Hands gripping the console so hard his fingers almost cramped, his head bowed in grief.

“Did you do that on purpose?” he hissed. The TARDIS gave a little hum; and he closed his eyes, fighting back tears. “Because I wanted to find some explanations, today. I asked for you to help with about that Princess, I expected you to show me something of Clara’s past or her future; and instead you sent me to see-“ He broke off, staring straight ahead at River’s reflection on the console. Her echo; not the real River. Standing behind him; so close that he could feel goose-bumps on his arms from her proximity.

“I don’t want to see her,” he mumbled, feeling the light, barely-there pressure of River’s hand freeze on his shoulder; and the Doctor sank his teeth down onto the inside of his lip. He was trying to move on. He was trying to pretend it was easy to let go of his wife, that his grasp on sanity and contentment after Darillium wasn’t as tenuous as it was. 

“Can’t you do that, old girl? No surprise trips to see any version of my late wife? I know you want to help but that… that wasn’t help. What I need is to understand Clara,” he pleaded.

“Because she died twice already. There was a line about that in the poem,” said the Doctor dully, feeling River’s hand slide off his shoulder and trying not to weep from a strange sense of loss. “The gift of life is given twice; and Clara has _died_ twice.”

“Everyone dies.” River sounded sullen; which was very unlike her. His River got angry; slaps and threats and hard, biting kisses when she was upset. The way she sounded now, grumpy and sulky, was a bit like… well, perhaps a bit like him.

“So then,” the Doctor continued stubbornly, “what happens to Clara the third time? I can’t have someone who dies because of me, twice, and I can’t be able to do anything or save her to make up for the times I didn’t manage it before. Or even just an explanation of _why_. I’d be happy with just an explanation.”

“Maybe the explanation you’re missing is that the TARDIS sent you where you needed to go?”

“Maybe we’re both tired,” the Doctor said. “Maybe we both feel like we’re chasing ghosts.”

“Clara isn’t a ghost,” snapped River. “Ghosts can’t be seen or heard, can they, Doctor?”

_You can_. But he didn’t say it aloud; choosing instead to throw the TARDIS into flight.

“Think I’ll go pick Clara up again,” he said, trying to sound cheerful. “I think I know someone who can help. There’s a psychic I’ve heard of, whose stock-in-trade is communicating with ghosts. Just in case Clara really is one.”


	25. Responsibilty

No one likes to be replaced; and if River had been anyone else, she could have hated Clara.

Not because of who she was. She was sweet, this latest companion. A girl who liked traveling, was intelligent and adventurous… but still reserved and unwilling to commit to staying in the TARDIS full-time. The Doctor's Impossible Girl was the sort to want her feet on the ground, even when she occasionally took off into the stars. River could respect that, somehow.

“Well, what do you think of her?” murmured River, trailing ghostly fingers over the walls of the TARDIS. “Another stray, I know… but the Doctor seems much better for having her along.”

The TARDIS gave a discontented hum, and River shrugged. “She seems good for him,” she said staunchly, tamping down her own feelings. “Why don’t you like her?”

She tilted her head, correctly interpreting the electronic whine before she started to laugh, her hearts feeling a bit lighter. “Dear heart, so was Jack, and you liked him. Probably helped that he’s pretty. And if you want to play that card, I suppose that some would consider that I’m rather impossible myself. That’s not a reason to dislike someone… although, yes. I’m your impossibly engineered possibility. Not surprising for a Mother to think her child is close to perfection.”

She could feel the TARDIS vibrate happily beneath her hand before making a muted grumble; and River sighed.

“What about me? I’m just happy he’s…” She stopped, swallowing down the vacuous self-sacrificing comment she was going to make; something along the lines of ‘well, he’s the Doctor, and if he’s important to me all I should be happy for his happiness…’

“You know me too well,” whispered River. She should’ve been happy, seeing the Doctor come alive again; but she wasn’t, not really. She was existing, that was all. And it certainly didn’t help her grumpiness that the Doctor persisted in believing Clara was someone other than who she was. The Princess that his Ninth regeneration had been charged with saving.

_It’s not her!_ River wanted to shriek sometimes. She wanted to slap him, to grab him by his shoulders and shake him and ask how in the world he could possibly be so ridiculous! Because didn’t he know… couldn’t he _realize_ that the person he was meant to save all along was _her_! River Song. His wife; not just a companion he took along to show the world.

Not that there was anything wrong with his companions. He chose his friends well; they were wonderful people, capable of wonderful amazing things. But she was different. She’d _thought_ she was different, at least; that she’d meant more, or that he’d cared more about her than the others. It hurt to think that despite everything, she was replaceable. His sudden fascination with the mystery of Clara felt like visible proof of that; and she hated that feeling of jealousy and anger that rose up unbidden whenever she saw his fond smile at the girl.

“I wish he wasn’t so…” she said bitterly, knowing that those words could never completely encompass all that she felt for him. Love, always; but a mounting frustration and anger too. The TARDIS gave an apologetic wheeze; and River sighed.

She didn't hate Clara. But day by day, she was growing to resent her husband. The enthusiasm on his face when he picked Clara up, the dedication he showed in trying to understand her....it hurt.

But it wasn't just that. It was that he seemed to turn away from her these days. The togetherness she'd felt after Darillium, the feeling that she was still important to him was gone.

She _felt_ dead, now. What was she without him? A memory hanging on past its use-by date. A useless echo. And the more he ignored her, the more it rankled on her mind what he’d done… never saying goodbye or thinking about if he could save her beyond giving her a safe, bodiless eternity without him. She hated him for thinking she would be happy without him… but perhaps he’d thought she could be. Because clearly, he was alright without her.

She'd saved him, so many times in the past. But maybe, River thought sourly, he didn't need that anymore with a brand new mystery to solve and a Companion by his side. Didn't need her anymore; and that was the bitterest thought of all.

* * *

"Have I," said the Doctor portentously, "got something to show you! What would you say, Clara Oswald, to going ghost hunting? Tonight, we could find out the truth about one of the oldest legends in Yorkshire!"

Clara's expression said it all. Shock. Dismay. Maybe just a little fear...

"Now,” chided the Doctor, “don't have that face.” Clara wrinkled her nose.

"I haven't got a face."

"You do, and it's all _'why a ghost?'_ And to that, I have to ask... What could be more interesting than a ghost story?"

“Lots of things,” answered Clara, staring incredulously at him with wide eyes. “You could take me anywhere in the world-“

“The Universe,” corrected the Doctor blithely.

“Anywhere,” Clara stressed, “but you’ve brought me to rainy Yorkshire to find out the truth about an ancient ghost story?”

“There’s something tragic and wonderful about ghosts,” murmured the Doctor, staring down at the controls to avoid looking at either his twice-dead Companion, or the echo of his late wife. “Aren’t you interested?”

"There’s something scary and frightening about ghosts," said Clara, refusing to back down. “And no; I’m not.” She sighed. "But I think you're going to insist- "

"And you're right. Come on, Clara. This should be enlightening. For all of us."

And it was, but not for the reasons he'd thought. River hung back in the shadows, watching as the Doctor flitted around, drinking milk straight from the bottle, toggling switches he should leave alone, and throwing out conversational distractions until she was sure everyone's heads ached.

"If you can't stand still," River blurted out, "just go find it. You're driving me mad."

Emma paused, lifting her head very suddenly.

"The music room," she said. "The music room is the heart of the house."

"Because every ghost wants a little something to dance to?" mumbled River, as the Doctor ushered Clara through the doors. He had already turned around and didn't see what she did. The confusion on Emma's face, followed by a reflective look and a tiny smile.

* * *

This was his adventure with Clara; and River hung back as she always did. There was nothing to say, nothing she could offer him; especially as he didn't acknowledge that she was there. In fact, she was a silent observer until the Doctor was trapped, and Clara stood outside urging the TARDIS to do the impossible.

"You're lying to her," River remarked idly, staring at the monitor to see Clara facing herself.  
"You could do it... It's not easy. But navigated correctly, you could make it."

The TARDIS was quiet. Expectant and waiting; and River swore under her breath.

“I don’t know what you think I can do. I’m a ghost. He doesn’t even seem to remember me.”

Silence, punctuated by one forlorn peal of the Cloister bell.

“Guilt doesn’t work on me, dearest. I’m River Song… I was raised on the stories of those he didn’t save, of what his selfishness does to the world.” Her breath was coming faster with anger and frustration, her hair whipping around her face as she spun to look closer at the monitor. Outside, Clara was pleading with herself, and perilously close to tears.

“I don’t want to help him anymore,” River said softly. “I always did… but if he remembers me so little… if he thinks Clara is so wonderful, then why don’t you give _her_ the chance?” 

The TARDIS made a disapproving hum; and almost like a response, the doors opened. Clara flung herself inside as the ship took off, and River hung back. Watching Clara fruitlessly try to navigate, her screams full of terror and teetering on the brink of madness, the vortex swirling around them, energy systems beginning to fail… 

“Alright!” River snapped, spurred into action. “But this isn’t for him. It’s for you; I can’t let you bleed dry and get trapped because she can’t do it!”

She raced around the console in circles around Clara, trying to tell the TARDIS what to do, how to find him; because she knew the girl couldn’t do it alone. Piloting the ship into the pocket universe was akin to walking a tightrope; lean too much in one direction or the other and you'd fall. 

But River was more than capable. The Doctor always mocked her reliance on her vortex manipulator, but it was precisely that skill combined with her bond with the TARDIS which made her able to navigate where even he might not have been able to; and River soothed the TARDIS, directing her: _there, come on, turn, avoid the temporal glitches, don't try to land dearest, he'll figure a way to catch a ride. Avoid that creature! It's the same one that was in the house -except it's not- there are two of them; and I wonder if he realised?_

And when it was all over: she watched, bemused, as the Doctor declared this was all just a love story. Boy and girl meet, and then one or the other, thrown out of the hex but still yearning…

“Everything ends,” River said to herself, watching the Doctor walking Clara and Hila to the TARDIS. The rescued creatures loping along behind them, crooked necks entwining like snakes as they snapped affectionately at each other. “Everything ends, sweetie. Even love.”

“But not today,” a quiet voice corrected her. “Aren’t we both proof of that?”

Startled, River turned her head to see Emma beside her, staring intently. As though she could see her, she reached one hand to touch her finger against the contours of River’s curls.

"I used to read fairy tales,” Emma said softly, “where everyone is saved in the end by true love’s kiss. But what do stories tell you about love? It made it seem magical; when I think it’s anything but. It can ask terrible things of you that you didn't know you were capable of... and then demand them at exactly the right time.”

River held her breath seeing Emma’s slightly unfocused eyes, hearing her dreamy ramble as her fingers traced the line of River’s nose, over her cheeks. There were lines etched on the woman’s face that she was sure hadn’t been there earlier. Three times that night she’d opened a doorway to a pocket universe; and River could see the toll it had taken.

“If the Doctor hadn’t come into your life tonight,” she began.

“Then we might not have understood until it was too late. About Hila, about those creatures…” Emma shuddered, a hint of cognition returning to her face. “I’m glad they were helped, but they were still so…”

River managed not to smile. “I understand. The thing to remember is that not everything in the universe is pretty; what is in your heart is more important than the exterior.”

“Yes.” Emma nodded. “The heart. Do you know what is in the Doctor’s heart, River Song?”

“I didn’t tell you my name.”

“You didn’t have to; I could read it in him. River Song, Melody Pond. The music room is the heart of the house. His house, his heart. There is a sliver of ice there because you're gone... But why don't you tell him that you're not?"

There was a simplicity in Emma's words; the righteousness if someone who could see yet not understand why others didn't comprehend what she did. River sighed; and Emma’s hand dropped down to lay lightly on hers.

“I could feel you, you know. The moment the Doctor arrived in his ship, I could sense you; but I was confused at first. Because someone was lost, and those creatures were yearning for each other and to be free… but someone was dead. I could smell death; and the only one left here is you.”

“Yes,” River said, closing her eyes. “I am dead. Congratulations; you are to be admired for the level of your psychic empathy. I don’t know if I’ve ever met anyone better.”

“I never thought it was a gift that meant much. It’s too confusing, not knowing if what you sense is really what someone feels; or if the use of it is even ethical. Reading the truth and answering it, when people would be happier with a lie. 

“I told the Doctor what he wanted to know about Clara,” she whispered confidentially. "He said that’s why he came here. He wanted to know about her; but she's just a girl, an ordinary girl.”

“I knew that,” River said dismissively. “He’s looking for something, but it’s not her.”

“No,” Emma agreed. “She might be on his mind, but your name is in his heart.”

“Not anymore.” River bit her lip. “I'm nothing anymore. Just an echo that doesn't belong.”

Emma sighed. “That’s what I meant about truth and lies.”

Outside, the TARDIS dematerialized; and Alec turned to come back inside. His eyes scanned the window until he saw Emma, and his entire face lit up.

“That’s the thing,” Emma said, letting go of River’s hand to walk toward the door. “Love isn’t like the story books. It can ask terrible things of you… but that’s what makes it real. Terrible sacrifices at just the right times. And hopefully, with the best rewards.”


	26. Love a Tomb

There had been other companions in the past who had sensed her watching them. Martha had moments when she’d look up uneasily, listening as though she really could hear her talking; but River had never been quite certain about Donna. She’d been quite chatty -someone who talked _to_ herself or _at_ inanimate objects when she was alone as she contemplated what she’d seem in the Universe- and River couldn’t tell whether Donna had ever actually heard her, or if she just left spaces in her conversations out of habit.

In comparison: Amy had been frustratingly, almost amusingly oblivious, though Rory… Well, Rory had always seemed to notice when she was around. There was an odd logic to it, River felt, that of everyone, it would be her Dad who could feel her presence; though he generally reacted by leaving out plates of biscuits and cups of tea, as though he thought he was making homage to an ancient house-spirit. 

But Clara was more unobservant than even Amy had been. Idly, River wondered it was because she wasn’t around, except in flight. There had been a few instances when it might have been possible –wandering the depths of the TARDIS in an aborted timeline, or during a time loop the Doctor was unaware of when she searched fruitlessly for her deleted bedroom- but for the most part, she was very rarely on the ship except for going to or coming back from adventures. And during those times, her attention was taken up entirely by the Doctor; so she was unaware of anything or anyone outside of him and what he chose to tell her.

Which was why: finding herself in a conference call -facing the Doctor’s previously unmentioned wife- must have been as surprising as it was.

* * *

Vastra’s summons were akin to thinking of someone the moment before the phone rang; and River ran the information through her head before she willed herself to join them.

_Conference call, about the Doctor. Please come quickly. We will all be there._

There had been a hesitation in Vastra’s mental invitation before using the word all; so River surmised who would be in attendance there. Strax and Jenny, certainly… but not him, almost definitely not him. Vastra would never have been foolish enough to invite them both; plus the Doctor so rarely responded to phone, text message, email or really, anything other than huge comments scrawled across time and space. So logic dictated that it would have been someone else close: hence, a companion.

But from the surprise and thinly veiled antagonism in Clara’s voice, Vastra hadn’t made her privy to that information. River sipped her champagne, managing only brief smiles and vague comments as she thoughtfully eyed the girl. She didn’t hate her; she _didn’t_. It was the Doctor she resented more and more each day. Each time he ignored her, each time he turned his head away and did exactly the opposite of what she suggested… He had only himself to blame for the Van Baalan brothers trying to cannibalize the TARDIS; because she’d protested vociferously about him taking down the shields. She’d reminded him that the Spacey Zoomer was not actually as interesting as the ads printed; and that having two hearts didn’t make you immune to red prehistoric red venom, so kindly be careful in Sweetville.

Emma had said that love involved terrible sacrifices. But, River thought bitterly, hadn’t she sacrificed enough? Over and over again; and her reward was the Doctor forgetting she existed. Who wouldn’t feel bitter, in her situation?

So she smiled at Clara, still unable to stop from smugly commenting that she knew the Doctor’s name. Not the girl’s fault, not at all… and yet she couldn’t help doing it.

But then Vastra explained what she had summoned them for… and if River still had blood, it would have run cold at the mention of that name. _Trenzalore._ His greatest secret is discovered.

“You misunderstood,” River said, trying to keep her voice from trembling.

She knew it, of _course_ she knew it; couldn’t do research into the Doctor’s life and not come across a mention. The location of his greatest defeat, the end of his long lifetime. Ended not in peace, but in strife; and she shivered, knowing how he would feel about that. There was a part of him that never had recovered from the Time War; that still longed to run away when he even got mention of war and bloodshed in conjunction with his name. But she had a feeling he wouldn’t be able to run this time, not if what she knew was correct; and it was surprising how much of the information on him out there _was_. He was always going to Trenzalore; he was always going to die on Trenzalore… and she couldn’t do a thing to stop it. 

In fact, she wasn’t supposed to stop it. In the depths of the Library (when she’d first arrived and couldn’t help glutting herself on rare history and archaeology texts) she’d even found one thin volume that talked about the role of River Song through the end of the Doctor’s days. Her involvement began as the Truth-Sayer, saving the Doctor and his associates from bodiless horrors. And then the book had gone on to give highlights of the thousand year siege when she’d fought alongside her husband…

River hesitated. She hadn’t thought of that book for years; actually, she’d forgotten it. River Song wasn’t mentioned in any of the others she’d read while at Luna, it had only been in that one from the Library which she’d dismissed as a typo because she’d already been dead; so how could she have been there?

Vastra was still talking but River couldn’t hear her words anymore; only the tone of her voice –intense, worried- somehow the same as it had been all those years ago when urging her to venture outside.

_‘I have the sense that your presence among us is an indication that your adventures are unfinished, and there is still more for you in the Universe. And if you never take the steps to leave this house, it will all be for nothing.’_

She’d thought at the time it was ridiculous. Vastra’s well-meaning way of encouraging her to look in on the Doctor. But now: she could feel the strange tickling in her mind of those long-dormant Time Lord sensibilities awaken. She could feel those links of _time_ and _fate_ and _fixed points_ and _this must happen now_ taking effect. 

Which was… ridiculous. 

River Song was dead. She was an echo, unseen and unheard and likely even unremembered by the Doctor. She shouldn’t even have been there at all, let alone on Trenzalore… but River frowned as Jenny faded out; and she tested the boundaries in her mind, feeling Silurian and Sontaran but only one human mind still connected.

For just a moment, she could hear the Doctor’s voice in her ears; calmly, patiently explaining her own timeline to her after Berlin. 

_‘People assume that time is a strict progression of cause-to-effect, but actually, from a non-linear, non-subjective viewpoint, it’s more a ball of wibbly-wobbly, timey-wimey… stuff. That sentence is rubbish; I should stop trying to explain it that way because it always gets away from me. The point is, River, you can feel time and fixed points like I do. And it’s not a straight line at all. Someone can be born in the 20th Century and die in the 19th. Or in your case: be born in the 21st, raised in the 20th, go to University in the 51st, and die…’_

He’d stopped then, not finishing his sentence and pretending he’d meant to say it like that; but she’d guessed even then, that he knew something he wasn’t going to tell her. 

Strange the things that came back to you when you least expected them. River bit her tongue, hard, welcoming the brief spasm of pain. He’d meant for her to understand that she could live and die in any era. But… fixed points were that way for a reason. They had to happen so that time could continue as it should; and Trenzalore was one of those. She could _feel_ it, rushing through her brain like adrenaline. What was to come hinged on her; and real or echo, alive or not, River Song was meant to stand beside the Doctor there. She was _meant_ to save him, yet again.

She spared a moment to hope Jenny was alright; grieving, even as she realised it was unlikely. Conference calls with human participants simply didn’t end when someone wanted to leave. There was a proper procedure for how they were to be concluded. Mental links had to be severed completely either through deliberate means or brain inactivity; or else a human might go mad, walking around with someone else inside their mind. 

She should have reminded Vastra of that fact instead of sending her and Strax back to wakefulness. But she hadn’t wanted to. Rather; she’d needed Vastra not to remember; because she had a feeling there was something she’d need to do; and she wanted to be able to draw on Clara’s physical strength because she had none of her own. Merely strength of will, and she wasn’t sure it would be enough for what was to come.

* * *

“Ugh,” River groaned, finding herself lying face-down in a graveyard. “What I wouldn’t give for a vortex manipulator now? At least then I always landed on my feet.”

It had been hard to force herself to go somewhere she’d never seen. For so long she’d only had to let herself fade to insubstantial mist and then focus on the Doctor, her Doctor to lead her home. But this time -after Clara disappeared in a sudden blip of displaced energy- she’d held the space-time coordinates Vastra had shown them in her mind, grumbling under her breath at how difficult it felt to materialise there. As though the planet itself was trying to push her off. If she’d had a proper lip to bite in concentration, she would have done so. Not that she had proper teeth as a ghost… but those were the Doctor’s sort of ridiculous thoughts she was having, and she was grateful to leave them behind as she jumped to her feet and turned to walk toward the tallest monument there.

The TARDIS. She sighed, feeling as though her hearts were breaking at the sight of her at her end; the Gallifreyan technology leaking out until she looked as though she brushed the sky. The only thing worse really, was the gravestone she passed along the way with her name on it. She paused, wrinkling her nose at the sight of it; though it made sense for the book she remembered from the Library. If she _had_ been there and the Doctor died, then it would make sense that she’d done, too. 

Or –and she grinned- it was only his sense of humour. Such a grave had to be false… because the only suitable resting place for the child of the TARDIS would have been the TARDIS itself; and she spun around to see the Doctor and Clara, walking purposefully in her direction.

“Clara,” she hissed. “Don’t speak, don’t say my name. He can’t see or hear me, only you can.” 

Even at this moment, saying that aloud hurt. And seeing him look through her –as he had for a long time- still made a little fission of pain blossom up in her chest. She followed as the ground opened up beneath them and they fell through to the catacombs beneath; she drifted alongside as they ran from the Whispermen, but when they met up with Vastra, Strax and Jenny she slipped away. Concentrated for the briefest of moments on the TARDIS and found herself inside, staring at the rips in time he’d left behind and the Cloister bell tolling forlornly in her ears.

“Love a tomb,” she murmured aloud to herself; surprised to hear her voice echo in the dark gloom around her. She’d forgotten for a moment that the link with Clara lent her more strength than she’d had before. “Archaeologist, you know. _Someone_ thinks it’s a ridiculous profession, but it is much more fascinating than he assumed.”

Even this old, this sick and tired and dying; the TARDIS was still alert and could still hear her. Through the soles of her feet she could feel it, the faint vibrations of welcome emanating from the floor and the warm flash of love that overwhelmed her mind.

“It’s you and me, dear heart,” she said. “Who would have thought that even after he was gone, we’d still be here? In whatever way we are. The thing is,” murmured River, “I’m not sure why we are. You, of course; I understand about you. With him gone, where else would you go? But me?

“I’m not supposed to be here, really.” Her voice was soft. “In the normal scheme of how time runs, I’m supposed to be dead. Or an echo, that the Doctor trapped in the database. I’m still not really certain of how I got out… though I suppose it doesn’t matter how, only that I did. At least,” she smiled wryly, “that’s what the Doctor would say. He does tend to accept things on blind faith, sometimes. Pity I’m not like that.”

The TARDIS whined; and River ran her hand gently over the doors. “I’m sorry, dear. The perils of being married; you start to speak like each other. Or,” she sniffed, “the perils of hanging around as an unseen, unheard ghost for a few centuries. You do start talking, just to hear yourself sometimes. Even if no one is listening… but you always listen, don’t you? Unlike him. All those years, all that time and he never heard _anything_.” 

She sounded bitter and she knew it, but she couldn’t help the venom with which those words came out. The TARDIS was quiet, the Bell fading to a faint chime; and River sighed, dropping her hands to her sides.

“I shouldn’t be here, and yet I’m supposed to be here,” she mumbled. “Found a book in the Library which told me so… that River Song stood beside her husband at the siege. And that she saved the Doctor by speaking the truth; which hardly sounds like me, does it? I lie better than he does… and besides, I don’t know,” she paused, taking a deep breath, “if I want to. Save him this time. I saved _you_ in Yorkshire; he was only the by-product.

“Doesn’t it seem to you like I always do that? Save him, whenever he needs it. And so often it comes at the expense of giving up another piece of me, my life for him.” Her hands were shaking as she knotted them into fists. “I’m already dead; so what should I give up now? There’s nothing left of me.” 

She managed a soft laugh. “The Witch said it, back in the Library. Even my hair isn’t real anymore.”

There was a tiny rattle from the console. “Yes,” River said. “I know. I’m real to you. And I _know_ I’m being foolish; I know that he’s been there for me too. Whenever I called, he was always there. Even the last time, when he had no idea who I was. And yes, he managed to save me then; in an utterly sweet, useless way. But I don’t know if I want to do this again, get trapped in this endless loop of saving him again; and it’s not just that I’m upset he seems to have forgotten me in favour of figuring out Clara.”

The TARDIS let out a soft wheeze that sounded faintly reprimanding.

“I said, it’s not only because of that.”

The TARDIS wheezed again, sounding sterner.

“Alright,” snapped River. “That is part of it. You know, he had his time of brooding on the cloud, refusing to do anything productive. He does that when he gets upset… so why does it seem that I always have to be better than him? More caring, more appreciative, more understanding, more…everything! I bargained for my existence with a parasitic virus in the Library, and then had to run away because he wouldn’t help me. I sacrificed myself to rescue him and over four thousand others… Why is it always me to save him?”

But even as she said that, she _knew_. Because one could be a hero and not give everything you had away; and despite his big words and ability to find himself in the fray of difficulties, he was still the type to be reserved. To hide his true self and run from committing to anything, even emotion… whereas she’d never been like that. She threw herself into whatever she did; she made bold gestures and grand plans, not caring of the outcome to herself as long as what or who she protected would be safe.

The speakers started with a tinny rattle, and River realised she could hear their voices outside: Jenny and Strax and Madam Vastra, all of whom she cared about. And the Doctor. Her Doctor. He pleaded for the lives of his friends; she could hear the tears in his voice; and River suddenly managed to smile. 

“Alright,” she murmured, her voice echoing in the dark stillness of the TARDIS. “Alright. I know what you’re trying to do. Prove to me that he’s worth it…aren’t you, old girl? He’s always been worth it… that bad and good, selfish and selfless… Even when I hate him, I still love him. For who he is, and who he could be.”

She had a sudden memory, sitting in a replica of her room on the TARDIS, staring into a mirror and seeing the Doctor’s Ninth self, bitter and angry after the Time War. Herself, coaxing him to be the man she knew he could be again if he’d just go out, if he’d let himself care for anyone again…

Despite whatever twists and turns they’d taken, he was _her_ Doctor again. The man who was willing to do great feats for love… and weren’t they the same, really?

“Everyone keeps saying it. Emma… even me. The greatest sacrifices can have the greatest rewards. Still not sure I believe that, really. But when it comes to it… it’s the Doctor. The man I love and the man I chose to give things up for. And I will always choose saving him in the end. No matter the cost to myself.”

River’s fists unknotted and she turned to the doors; her lips parted as she whispered a name long unspoken, and the TARDIS doors opened with a groan.


	27. Impossible Possibilities

It should have been the end. Trenzalore. He’d heard the name whispered around the Universe, never wanted to know for certain what it was. (River would have known; River always knew. If he’d had a moment to spare between linking Clara to the TARDIS telepathic circuit, if he’d been willing to acknowledge River’s echo, he was sure she would’ve told him. But he’d made such a practice of ignoring her so far and for all that time, it felt a bit ridiculous to go back on that when facing mortal peril.) 

And now here he was. Standing in his very own tomb. Begging a disembodied mind not to doom him and itself to no avail; and his end loomed closer than it ever had before.

It didn’t even hurt, at first. It was like a tickle between the shoulder blades when the Intelligence first entered his timestream. A nagging itch that grew worse with each twist of his past until he was writhing in agony -skin stretched too tight, hearts beating too fast, brain unable to focus on a solution- as a myriad of different events went down the path of the road not taken and changed his existence. It wasn’t even the big things; that would have been bad enough. But it was the little ones that you never think should be important but are… happiness turned sour, friends become enemies, stars never visited, Companions never met. 

It hurt enough that he thought he might die of the pain… no, that wasn’t true. He _was_ dying, he could feel it; and fleetingly, he wondered that the idea of that no longer frightened him. Once, he’d not wanted to go. Once, he’d have run.

But not anymore. Everything has its time, and everything dies… and it wasn’t just that he didn’t have the strength to try to flee.

_Maybe_ , the Doctor thought muzzily, _this is karma_. He’d always said he wasn’t an unimpeachable God, incapable of doing wrong. He’d done wrong, plenty of it throughout time, even if he hadn’t tried to. Guilt rose up to mingle with the pain. The people he’d failed, the places lost when he just couldn’t do enough.

_Maybe this is what I deserve._

He wasn’t surprised, somehow, that River was there. She always had been for his endings; and even though she was gone, her echo remained. Her face was frozen in surprise, but there was a glint in her eyes as she watched him… he could almost hear the wheels clicking in her head as she puzzled through his options, and then hers... it hurt too much to smile, but he wanted to. It was so _very_ River. She might have been his imagination or a remarkably persistent interface, this echo of his wife; but even like this, she would try to save him.

“How’s that plan going?” River asked softly. She leaned closer as he collapsed on the floor, her voice a barely audible murmur in his ear. He shook his head, turning his face slightly away from her; and River sighed.

“You’re not making this easy, sweetie. You’ve always got a plan… but I’m finding it very hard to figure this one out.”

_Because I don’t have one._ He wanted to say it, but something glued his mouth shut. _Because I can’t see a way out of this. And I’m not sure I care._

“I have to go in there.” Clara was staring at the entwined tangle of his life, seemingly mesmerized. “This is what I’ve already done. You’ve seen me do it. I’m the Impossible Girl, and this is why.”

River’s head whipped around until she was facing his Companion. “Whatever you’re thinking of doing…” she said slowly, “don’t.”

“But if I step in there, what happens?” 

“A million versions of you,” River answered automatically. “Living and dying all over time and space. Like echoes.” She sounded bitter; and the Doctor closed his eyes in confusion. 

Yes, Clara was his Impossible Girl, living and dying across time and space for no recognizable reason. But now was just one more impossible thing to add to the list, because he would have sworn that she’d never seemed to hear River before this. Hard to focus too much on that right now though, because, well. _Dying._

“The echoes,” persisted Clara, “could save the Doctor, right? They’ll be real enough to save him. It’s the only way, isn’t it?”

He could see River nod, hesitantly; and irrationally he was quite annoyed with her. No matter that she wasn’t _real_ ; she was usually more helpful than this, his wife. Not the sort to encourage his Companions into danger… unless she had suddenly realised something he hadn’t? Which, knowing River, was entirely possible… still, he tried to stop her. 

“Nooo,” hissed the Doctor, waving his hand fruitlessly to pull her back. “Clara…”

_Don’t do it. Please…_

But obviously she couldn’t hear his thoughts; and off she went, stepping blindly into his timestream. He could hear her scream right at first, feel her terror and bravery all at once...

And then, it had stopped hurting, one molecule of his being at a time. Just as he’d felt the Intelligence warping everything, he felt her pulling everything back to its proper place. Sacrificing herself: a hundred times, thousands, millions even. He had to wonder how many times he’d met Clara over his lifespan and never even realised it.

Just when he’d been resigned to dying, she’d done _this_. Clara had been brave and selfless in the face of danger… and that lit a fire inside of him he thought had died out a long time ago.

“I have to get her back,” he said once he was capable of speech again. Better than regeneration, this feeling. His hearts were beating stronger, brain synapses doing a swift snap-crackle-pop action as he tried to figure out the best way of handling things. 

“She’s got one advantage over the Great Intelligence. Me.” He was the Doctor, and that was what he did, right? Help people. Save the world; it’s what he’d always done. Give him a scarf and an umbrella, a little jiggery-pokery, some sleight of hand and a healthy dose of luck and he could reboot the Universe.

But something felt different. His recent companions had all travelled with him and learned to unlock the potential he’d known was in them, so that _they_ could be the saviours. Mickey had become a defender of the Earth, and Martha had found the courage to walk a ravaged world alone for a year. Rory had been strong enough to wait 2000 years in an alternate timeline. Amy and Donna both had ingenuity and genius wired into their brains, waiting to be released… 

But Clara was different. What had Emma said? She was an ordinary girl… and this situation had far more in common with Rose, than with anyone else. She’d given her life for him, and his Ninth self had known back then, that there was a certain reciprocity owed. A life for a life; and he couldn’t do nothing. It wasn’t just his suspicion of who she was –the Princess, needing to be saved– but…well, he had been like that once. Sacrificing. So why _couldn’t_ he be that sort of man again, who would do the same for her?

Dimly he could hear River pleading with him to listen to her. To use the TARDIS, to save her but be sensible…

_Ah, wife…_ he thought as he threw up his hand, catching her wrist by sheer instinct right before she belted him. _I thought you knew. I was never that sensible._

For the first time since Darillium, River was silent. He could feel her arm trembling beneath his grasp; a very human gesture.

“How,” she whispered, “are you doing that? I’m not really here.”

Strength and courage and ingenuity flowed in his veins for the first time in a very long time; and the Doctor found it in him, suddenly, to look at River. _Straight_ at her, like he hadn’t dared to do before. It was strange and painful and wonderful, all at the same time; and his eyes skimmed over her, reminding himself of every nuance of his wife. Not that he’d forgotten, not at all. But he’d let her image fade deliberately in his mind, until what was left was like a blurry photograph, and now he could see her, properly in focus.

All that time, wasted. He should have done this ages ago, given in and talked to her and not pretended that she wasn’t there. That he couldn’t hear her voice, feel those soft half-touches or gentle kisses she’d sometimes given him.

_I’m sorry_ , he wanted to say. _I’m sorry about everything, but you know that, don’t you? You always knew, you always forgave me even if I didn’t deserve it. I never meant to ignore you; I shouldn’t have. I should have accepted whatever version of you I got to have for even a little while longer. Especially because now, if I’m trying to be brave, maybe I should be brave enough to finally let you go._

“You are always here to me,” was what he managed to say instead. “And I always listen, and I can always see you.”

“Then why didn’t you speak to me?”

“Because I thought it would hurt too much. I thought it would hurt me. And I was right.”

He kissed her, half expecting her to fade insubstantial when he did, or to wake up and find this had all been a dream. But she was still solid against him. He could even smell her as he leaned closer, that scent of ancient dust that had always clung to her hair and skin like perfume. Her lips parted beneath his, and with a muffled groan he realised that he could taste her…the sweetness of candied violets and the spiciness of Time; he stroked his tongue along hers, mapping out the inside of her mouth with practiced ease. 

Despite how long it had been, he could never have forgotten what kissing River Song was like. He felt more alive than he had in ages; or she felt alive to him. Not a ghost at all, in that moment. She felt as real as he did; like that kiss had brought her back to life.

_I wonder if you’ll fade when I’m not here?_ he thought irrelevantly, wishing this never had to end. _I wonder why you haven’t already. You’re an echo of consciousness that I still think the TARDIS created for me. You’re not real… because even if you were, you could never have existed outside the Library without a host to keep you anchored._

His thoughts raced through his mind as he kissed her, every one circling back to the same conclusion. She wasn’t real, couldn’t be real. The Universe didn’t grant favours like that, miracles were few on the ground. And even though he wished it was different, wished he could _keep_ her here with his will and focus alone; that would never be enough. 

He pulled away from her, only then remembering that they weren’t alone in the room. He could sense Vastra’s amusement, Jenny’s confusion and Strax’s…well, horror at such a revolting human-y display. 

“You are an _echo_ ,” he murmured, trying to convince himself. “You should have faded by now.”

River’s lips curved into a sly smile, and her eyes twinkled at him as she was trying to tell him a secret.

“It’s hard to leave when you haven’t said goodbye.”

But he didn’t want to say goodbye to her. He never had. He _still_ didn’t. For the briefest moment, he wanted to pull her into his arms again, kiss her like they had all the time in the world and nothing would ever change around them. When had he ever wanted to say goodbye to anyone that he loved? He’d never been able to.

“Then tell me,” he pleaded, “because I don’t know. How do I say it?”

“If you ever loved me,” River’s smile seemed even wider, the naughty light in her eyes gleaming like a candle, “say it like you’re going to come back.”

And he managed a smile, straightening up and looking at his wife for the last time. “Well then,” said the Doctor, trying not to cry at the very futility of it all. Even now, protecting him. Knowing that he hated goodbyes… would always rather leave things as a vague ‘I will return’ while knowing in his hearts that he probably never would.

And then she was gone, with one last moment of teasing him about spoilers; although he knew, and she knew that there really couldn’t be any more between them. Their time was done, she had faded away as all echoes should… and the Doctor hastily pushed those thoughts down until he had time to think about them, because he had something more pressing to do in the meantime.

Clara. He had to save Clara, because she saved him and he could do this.

_Like jumping into a swimming pool,_ he told himself sternly, tiptoeing to the edge of his timestream. _Just hold your nose and jump… but maybe don’t hold your nose, because that will look ridiculous; and Vastra and everyone already must think you’re a star fruit shy of a Venusian fruit-stand because they couldn’t see River just now, so it looked like you were just enthusiastically kissing air. And talking to no one…which, yes, I do tend to do._

_Who said that?_ He wondered briefly. _Someone said that to me, once. Does it matter who? Probably not. I’m procrastinating because I have to do this, but I’m scared at the same time, and this is possibly the craziest thing I’ve ever done… which, knowing my track record, is really saying something._

_Someone told me that, too. ‘There was a man who thought the Universe was better off without him, but he was wrong. He did great and amazing feats for the places and people he loved.’ Who said that one?_

The knowledge of who had said those things settled on him, right as he finally forced his legs to move.

_The imp. And Threnody. When they tried to get me to save the trapped Princess who did a brave, stupid thing… and maybe, I am right after all about who Clara is?_

He jumped.

And as he found out later: he wasn’t right.

Because when they were safe –if he’d thought it was crazy going into his own timestream to save her; it was that times infinity, getting them both safely back out– and Clara was huddled in her own bed at the Maitlands because even the slightest variants in timewinds around a parked TARDIS made her retch helplessly; he had a moment to be rational.

It wasn’t Clara. The imp had even told his Ninth self that the Princess would never have just been his Companion… so he’d been especially foolish, seeing patterns that didn’t exist because it could _never_ have been her. He’d realised the truth as sticky strands of his own timeline clung to him like spider webs, making him relive his life and hear voices from the past. 

The clue had been in Threnody’s story all along… and it wasn’t as though he hadn’t understood it back then, or hadn’t gotten the unspoken implications: that the Princess must have saved him, and been stuck in his place. But the concept had been frightening to the man he had been (someone, anyone thinking of him with so much love and loyalty to do something like that) that he’d remembered the story, but blocked out what he’d mistaken for an unimportant statement.

A Princess with _golden curls_.


	28. Revelations

“Another Jammie Dodger?” the Doctor asked Clara, all but pushing the biscuit into her hand. She groaned, weakly pushing it away.

“No… don’t think I can keep it down.”

“But they’re good. Sweet. A little jammy heart for the girl who saved both of mine…?” He beamed (he’d thought of that right at the moment and _he_ thought it was good) but Clara groaned again.

“That was awful,” she whispered. “I think I preferred you before. Not so…”

“Adoring and appreciative of what you did for me?”

“Soppy,” said Clara. “And loud. Was your voice always this loud?”

“Sorry,” he stage whispered.

“S’okay,” she whispered back.

“Fancy a cup of tea then?” He held the cup under her nose, moving it away swiftly when she gagged. Clara pulled herself up to a sitting position and gingerly patted him on the shoulder, as though every movement she made only caused her pain.

“You’re sweet,” she murmured. “I know you mean well, Doctor. And I will be very happy for you to be this attentive to me. But _later_ , please? Have you ever done that? Pulled someone out of your timestream?”

He frowned. “No. You’d be the one and only, Clara. My _impossible_ Clara...”

“Yes, yes, impossible me. Then you don’t know quite how I feel? It’s like…” she paused, “I was shattered into pieces. No, that’s not right. It’s like I’m _made_ of pieces. And each one is different -a different colour or a different material- and they’ve all been stuck together like a big mosaic to make _me_ but the glue hasn’t dried and I’m not whole yet. And I keep thinking about things I’ve never seen before, or places I’ve never been to; except that I know they’re my memories so they must be real...”

The Doctor stroked his hand over her hair gently. “That will fade. Never had anyone jump into my timestream, but I knew someone from the Twenty-first Century who died in the future but ended up being reborn in the past as a plastic Roman soldier and living into an alternate timeline that was realigned to this one when I had to reboot the Universe…” He ignored Clara’s squint of confusion as she tried to follow that.

“Anyway, he told me once that he remembered everything, but after a while, it won’t completely consume your mind. It’ll be like thinking a story you heard in childhood.”

“Well,” said Clara, settling back against her pillows, “the day when I don’t remember all of this, all at once will be a wonderful one. I think I’m going to take a nap, now; is that alright?”

“Of course,” the Doctor said, tucking the duvet in tight beneath her chin, sitting back in his chair and watching as her eyes fluttered shut; until she made an exasperated sigh and her eyes flew open again.

“Please don’t sit there and watch me as I sleep, Doctor.”

“I’m just making sure that I’m here if you need something!”

“Look!” Clara fought with the duvet for a moment -maybe he had tucked her in a little tightly?- until she got an arm free to hold up her phone. “I’ve got my mobile, Doctor. If I need you, I’ll ring… but just for now, can you please, please, _please_ go away? Go to the TARDIS. Go do something and come back in an hour… don’t you have anything to do?

“Please,” Clara begged, clutching at his sleeve with a plaintive look on her face. “Go talk to your ship or something. Just… go.” She whined the last word, and he smiled, leaning over to give her a soft kiss on the forehead.

“An hour,” he promised. “I’ll be back in an hour.”

“Two would be better.”

“Hour and half, and sweet dreams Clara.”

He did have something to do, and things to think about. Which was, really, the reason he’d been hanging around Clara the way he had been. Because maybe, he was a little nervous to do what he was supposed to. The thing about running was that even when you knew you should, it was hard to stop.

Likewise, he knew what he was expecting to see the moment he walked outside the Maitland’s house, and he was right. Standing beside the TARDIS doors, a sly smirk on its small green face was the imp.

“Well,” it giggled. “Fancy seeing you here.”

The Doctor shook his head, a foolish smile on his own face. “Indeed,” he said. “Quite a surprise.”

“Oh really?” said the imp, “I rather thought you were expecting me, this time.”

“Yes, I was. I’ve got some questions for you; and guide or not, I think you can answer them.”

The imp nodded politely, clasping its hands together. “I can certainly try, Doctor. Whether my answers will meet your approval remains to be seen.”

“You told me,” said the Doctor, looking intently at the little figure before him, “that I’d met the Princess before. That sometimes her very appearance concealed from me who she was.”

“It did.”

“Ah,” said the Doctor. “I see. But that appearance… was it human and simply not who I would have expected? Or something alien?”

The imp stared impassively up at him. “I can’t answer that question.”

“Hmm,” said the Doctor, enjoying himself. “Interesting. I’ve got my suspicions about why you can’t answer that. If it were both not who I expected _and_ something alien; or at least not completely human. Anyway… next question, and this one is important.

“What did you tell me,” he dropped his voice to a serious whisper, “when you asked me all those years ago to save someone. What _exact_ wording did you use? Who was I supposed to save?”

Black eyes glittered at the Doctor. “I think you know.”

“No, I don’t. I always thought she was a Princess. You _told_ me she was a Princess.”

“I told you,” interrupted the imp, “that you could call her that, if it made you feel better about doing it.”

“But that’s not what she _is_ , is she? That’s not what you called her at first.” The Doctor scratched his cheek, brow furrowed in thought. “You called her a lady. A lost and beautiful Lady of a Lake.”

“Of a Pond,” the imp corrected automatically. The Doctor grinned; he couldn’t help himself.

“Yes,” he beamed. “And this Lost Pond… does she have a name?”

“Her very name is a song,” said the imp.

“Speaking in riddles, hmm? Good.” The Doctor clapped his hands together. “I like riddles. I’m _brilliant_ at riddles.”

“If I may say,” commented the imp blandly, “you seem to be in quite good spirits today.”

“Me?” He spun around in a little circle, his grin so big he thought his face might be permanently set that way. “New lease on life. I don’t think you’d understand…”

“No,” said the imp quietly. “I believe I would.

“Well,” it continued, “you seem to have gotten a new appreciation for saving-“

“My Lost Pond,” the Doctor interjected.

“Yes,” said the imp, “your Lost Pond. And you’ve boasted that you’re brilliant at riddles… so what are you planning to do now?”

Deflated, the Doctor looked at the green creature staring impassively back at him.

“But… it wasn’t enough that I figured it out?” he asked. “Who I was supposed to be saving? And… by the way,” he poked the imp none-too-gently in the shoulder, “you could have told me before.”

“No, I couldn’t. I tried… but there are always rules to follow, Doctor. I was warned, when I was given this mission that I was your guide, only. And no matter what I knew or didn’t know, there were prescribed tasks for us all; and one of mine was not giving you more information than you could handle at the time.”

“Hmm.” The Doctor frowned. “Annoying.”

“And _don’t_ ,” snapped the imp, “keep calling me annoying. I’ve told you: far better words to describe me.”

“Really?” The Doctor raised an eyebrow. “Well, I’ve had a few over the centuries, but I bet you wouldn’t like those either. Which word strikes your fancy?”

The imp paused, seeming taken aback by the question. “Well,” it drawled, looking shyly down at the ground first, before raising large black eyes to stare, unblinking, at the Doctor. “I think this is the moment I was told to wait for? Probably is.

“The truth is, Doctor, that I’ve had plenty of names through my life. But I suppose that for you… if you want, you can just call me… impossible.”

Sometimes, realisation creeps up on you like the slow dawning of a day. And sometimes, it hits like a frying pan. The Doctor’s mouth fell open as he stared at the imp. It looked the same. Small and green. Big black eyes and a pointy nose. Humanoid… he’d abstractly noted its physiological structure; but with colouring and height he’d never thought it _could_ be human…

“No,” he breathed, reaching over to grab its hand. “No, no…no?” He reached out blindly with his other hand, fumbling to open the TARDIS doors; and the imp tried to back away from him.

“What are you doing?” it asked, black eyes going wide, a fearful quaver in its voice.

“What do you think, you impossible…thing? I need you to come into the TARDIS.”

“No,” the imp said. “I can’t. I don’t belong in there.”

“No,” corrected the Doctor, “I think maybe you do.”

Even with the door open, it was difficult to walk into the TARDIS. His ship had a lot of failsafe measures built into her to prevent violence, theft, paradox… and he could feel the last one of those hard at work. It felt like he was trying to run underwater -a lot of motion to get absolutely nowhere- because the TARDIS didn’t want them, was trying to keep them out… and he could feel her starting to fuss and hum in irritation before he thought to wave the sonic to disconnect the shields and pull the imp in behind him.

It stood, feet just inside the threshold of the doors and staring up at him with surprise.

“It was another rule,” the imp said softly. “I wasn’t to come in. I was the guide for outside; it was only ever someone else allowed to talk to you when you were in the TARDIS. Too much paradox to sustain for me to enter. Translation circuits, I was told. Not just verbal but visual… if I came inside before you understood, it might have ruined everything by stripping away your illusions and showing you what you weren’t ready to see.

“Though,” the imp added cheerfully, “I did think that part was made up. _I_ thought the real reason was that I’d always told you that she didn’t like me.”

As he watched: silky green hair was effortlessly differentiated between clothes and hair; one flowing around a slender form and morphing into a very short dress, while the other darkened to chestnut. Skin turned an alarming puce before resolving to a rosy hue, and the black in her eyes contracting down to mere pupils ringed in dark brown irises, as the whites emerged around them.

“Impossible,” the Doctor mumbled, staring wide eyed at his Companion. His fingers twitched, and he reached out to touch her cheek. She felt real. Seemed real… “ _You’re_ impossible?”

“I’ve always been impossible,” Clara said. “You just never realised how much.”

“But…”

“Doctor, I was born to save you. A million times and a million lives, born to save you…and this time, a choice was made for me, and I was asked to follow instructions. I was told that the only way to save your Ninth self -all your future selves, really- was if I helped you to save _her_.”

“No, no,” said the Doctor, shaking his head in confusion. “Saving me; yes, I get that part. But you were short; well, shorter than usual. And… Clara, you were _green_!”

She sighed. “You know,” she tilted her head to the side, “all that time, all those lives… you could hear me. Almost always: you’d hear when I called, if I spoke and tried to save you. But you didn’t _see_ me… almost never. Except this time… but when you did, you saw what you wanted. You saw something as inhuman as you felt, after the Time War.”

She giggled, and he realised he could still hear the imp in her laughter. He always had… he’d always had a feeling that something about Clara reminded him of someone he’d met before. Silly Doctor; being fooled by his eyes and forgetting to trust his ears.

“Well,” said the Doctor briskly to hide his confusion. “Alright then. One mystery solved? I’ve an annoying imp-turned-into-my impossible girl as my guide. And now I have to rescue my Lost Pond Lady who is named for a…”

He paused, horrified. Clara was watching him curiously, the faintest of smiles on her face. 

“What’s wrong, Doctor? Do you need some… help?”

“A song?” he whispered.

“Song,” Clara confirmed, eyes dancing. “Clever boy.”

His feet almost slipped out from underneath himself as he ran for the console. He might have redecorated the desktop; but some things always stayed the same. Drawer beneath the blue stabilisers… with clumsy fingers, he jammed the CD into the drive, almost dancing in place as he waited for it to boot up.

“Threnody?” His breath caught in his throat at the whir-whir-whir sound it made, even as the screen stayed blank. “Threnody?!”

And then softer. Almost a whisper, as he caressed the buttons on the drive. “River?”

“You know,” Clara said, walking nonchalantly over to peer at the screen, “the volume is off.”

“No it’s not!” protested the Doctor. “Why would I have turned the volume…?” 

He groaned, suddenly remembering that day so very long ago. Fiddling with the volume so he wouldn’t have to hear her before ejecting the CD. And even when he’d put it back in, he’d never thought to fix that… hadn’t even remembered.

“Volume isn’t down, it’s on mute,” Clara confirmed, looking up at him. “How long has it been like that?”

“Not long,” lied the Doctor, brushing a nervous hand through his fringe. Clara’s eyes narrowed.

“Didn’t you say that she stopped talking to you, centuries ago?”

“But I thought it was because…” He shrugged uneasily. “Didn’t really do that, did I? Turned my wife on mute for a few hundred years? Even though I didn’t know she was my wife, back then.”

Clara looked steadily at him, her lips twitching slightly upward at the corners. “Is she a forgiving sort?”

“Ah,” the Doctor said. “Yes. Mostly? Not if I ignore her.”

“I’d suggest flowers. Lots of them.”

“Yes,” said the Doctor. “Thanks for that. Well, I think she _might_ forgive me. Saving her would definitely even the score a bit…”

Except that the screen was still dark; and the Doctor fought the urge to groan.

“Don’t I get credit for figuring out who she is?” he asked in a plaintive voice.

“After a few centuries, Doctor? Of not saving her and making her wait for you? Probably not.”

He gave in and groaned. The imp had told him, prophetically, that one day he’d feel guilty for his selfishness back then; and she’d been right. Because now that he knew who she was and what it meant, now that he’d finally figured it out, it was too late. The disc was empty and Threnody was gone… and even River was gone because she’d told him goodbye in Trenzalore and faded away.

Except… why had she? All that time she’d been hanging around the TARDIS, talking to him incessantly. All those centuries since Darillium… why had she gone _then_?

“What are all these things?” asked Clara curiously, running her fingers through the items left in the drawer. “All these bits of rubbish?”

“They’re not rubbish,” said the Doctor defensively, not really paying attention. “Those were the things I ended up with, after following those coordinates. See,” he pulled the scrap of plaid out, “that was from Jamie’s kilt, in Scotland.”

“Nice pattern,” Clara murmured.

“Each Clan has their own tartan. He was so Scottish,” the Doctor answered absently. “Wore it all the time, even if he could have found something else in the wardrobe.

“And this one,” he held up the cap, “is from that ninja girl, who needed me to save her husband.”

“How nice,” said Clara, taking it from him to let it dangle gingerly between her finger-tips. “An old hat… Did you see that there’s hair in it? A strand of golden hair that’s a few centuries old.”

“She had great hair,” the Doctor said. “Beautiful. Like a lion, all big and curly… still don’t know how she fit all that under there.

“And this,” he continued, pulling out the handkerchief, “was from that woman I met in the playground.” At Clara’s blank stare, he waved it in her face impatiently. 

“Oh, you know who I’m talking about! That woman? Her baby was lost, and even if she knew her daughter would be safe, she was still upset?” Clara shook her head, and the Doctor frowned. “Of course you know, Clara, _really_. The crying ginger with the kidnapped…”

He stopped, mouth gaping open like a fish and momentarily at a loss for words. 

_Amelia Pond_. Amelia -before he’d even met her properly and had her face inscribed on his mind- and he hadn’t remembered. And of course, now it all made sense, the connection he’d felt to this little girl had its roots in a crying lonely stranger met a long time before. He groaned again, slapping his head, hard; and Clara beamed, a little smugly.

“Clever boy,” she said, patting him on the arm. “Knew you’d get there eventually.”


	29. If you try sometimes, you get what you need

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Umm. Apologies? I was on vacation with very sketchy internet, and then launched back into the start of the school year… all of which made for no writing time. Alright, not the best excuses. I'm sorry for the long wait between chapters.  
> Chapter title from the Rolling Stones.

She loved her husband… but oh, she hated him, too. Because all that time, all those years in the TARDIS after Darillium.

He _had_ heard her. All her prattle about nothing, and he’d heard every single word…

Idiot, River thought fondly, her eyes sweeping over him right before he kissed her; soft and sweet with a slight restraint that evaporated as she responded to him. The warmth press of his mouth against hers, the feel of him… not just his body, but his mind against hers, the sparks of telepathy that had always flowed between them in moments of intimacy.

She could read his thoughts as they circled around and around. _She’s an echo, she’s not real_ followed with _does it matter? She’s River! She looks like River and sounds like River and kisses like River_ followed by _I can’t let her go, I know I should but I don’t want to, not ever._

And then a final thought as he drew away from her.

_How could I say goodbye? I never even told her how I feel about her; and if I never found the right words for that, how could I find the right ones for farewell?_

She could’ve cried at the sincerity in his voice as he looked at her seriously. “There is a time to live and a time to sleep… you should've faded by now.”

Her mind was racing, the vestiges of his thoughts mingling with hers as River tried to puzzle through the hows and the whys. Because he was right; beyond the fact that her consciousness should have faded slowly into the Library matrix, she should never have even been able to exist outside in the real world at all. For such a long time, she had been trapped there; but what had changed everything? Interacting with Vastra and the rest of them from Paternoster Row.

No. It had been before that. Meeting the Sea Witch -who should never have really been there, but was because a line had been left open and a link created that let her in- and making a bargain. A Catch 22, really; because there hadn’t been a solution. She’d been told: if she learned the rules and played her part, she could go; otherwise, she belonged to the Witch. And yet, the Witch, eyes glowing gold, that she had always belong to her and always would before somehow transmitting those same sparks into her skin and - 

_Oh._

River sucked in her breath, trying not to shriek as understanding flowed through her. She quickly tempered her glee; it was important, she knew that, for it not to show on her face… but difficult as her eyes danced in excitement and she wished fervently that he’d understand somehow. That he’d use that clever mind and put the pieces together, as she had.

_Time isn’t a straight line, my love; you know better than that. I know better. And I thought it before, but didn’t realize… In the present you connected Clara to the TARDIS to input the coordinates, and since I never cancelled the conference call… Everything circles around like the ouroboros. This leads to that, forever and ever, and the past and present and future all connect. Especially if you’re clever enough to follow the clues… and husband, you are precious and sometimes just a little slow._

But there were rules, the Witch had said. Learn the rules and follow them; one of which had always been not to tell him what he wasn’t ready for. And he wasn’t ready for this, not yet. He had Clara to save, everyone to get off Trenzalore, a ghost-wife to say farewell to… Too many things on his mind right now, and as usual, he wasn’t giving the right ones their proper attention.

“It’s hard to leave,” said River conversationally, “if you haven’t said goodbye. If you ever loved me, say it like you’re going to come back.”

She was baiting him and she knew it; but then, she’d always teased and baited him until he could understand what she was telling him but unable to say. And, too; it assuaged her own fears. The nagging wonder she’d had for centuries now: that if he loved her as he’d seemed to, how could he have left her and not even told her goodbye?

“See you around,” said the Doctor with a studied nonchalance that didn’t fool her in the slightest.

“Till the next time.” River was almost chirping with excitement. Very unlike her; but it was hard to keep her giggles inside.

“Don’t wait up.”

_Oh, sweetie. I’m a Pond. I always will, for you._

But she didn’t say that aloud. “Oh,” said River nonchalantly, choosing to ignore his last comment. “There’s one more thing…”

It couldn’t hurt, she figured, to tell him that there was in fact one final spoiler. It wouldn’t have been them if there wasn’t… and even though she knew he couldn’t understand it yet, he would eventually. And that made it alright as she smiled and whispered goodbye, her hearts light and mind singing.

_It’s alright, my love. You’ll figure it out. Eventually._

In all the time she’d been in the TARDIS as a ghost, she’d resisted thinking of the Library. There had been a part of her that was afraid that even the memory might draw her back; or that as she was watching the Doctor, the Witch might be watching her, just waiting for the right time to call in on their bargain and she would dissolve into nothingness.

But it was easier than she’d expected when she finally gave in, focusing once more on her memory of the Sea Witch. The person was the important thing, not the place; and she felt a little triumphant at not ending up in the dark underwater lair once more, but instead on the field where she’d first woken up, all those years ago. Facing her, hands clasped and identical grins on their faces were Charlotte and the Witch; and River laughed at the sight.

“You’re back!” cried Charlotte, flinging herself forward; and River knelt just in time to pull the girl up into a fierce hug.

“Of course,” she murmured, kissing her head, resting her cheek against Charlotte’s soft hair. “Have you missed me?”

“Well,” Charlotte looked shiftily to the side. “Yes. And no.”

“Oh, so you’ve replaced me?” teased River gently. “And here I thought I was special.”

“You are! It’s just…” Charlotte beamed, small face shining with excitement. “Did you tell her? About me? About what I wanted?”

Playing for time, River cupped the child’s cheek in her palm, tilting her face up so she could look right into Charlotte’s eyes. There was a certain peace there now, a contentment…

“No,” she murmured, pleased by what she saw. “I didn’t tell her. But she’s good. Very, very good at knowing what people need…”

“Took you long enough to figure out,” the Witch laughed, seating herself besides them.

“Not as long as _him_ ,” countered River defensively. “He still hasn’t.”

“Give him time.” The Witch shook her head slowly in amusement. “My thief. Not so good at seeing what is right in front his face, or hearing what he doesn’t expect. He’ll come around though. He always does.”

“But,” River said softly, “you could have told me everything. Let me understand what I was doing there. I’m not him, you know. And I thought – our bargain- I thought it meant that if I failed…” She shrugged uncomfortably, not wanting to admit it, but knowing she had to, “you’d… devour me, or something. You said play my part and I could go, and my soul and memories would belong to you. I didn’t know that meant you’d provide me with a physical link to leave.”

Once, the Witch’s eyes had been dark and curiously inhuman… but River groaned, knowing that she’d been as blind as her husband, seeing only what she expected. Because now that she looked closer she saw the gold lurking in their depths. Glowing, humming golden eyes, sparkling with hints of the only Huon energy left in the Universe; that looked River up and down before the Witch smiled.

“I’ve always known you,” she said finally. “From that time when you were barely more than a thought, from the moment of your conception in the Vortex as you struggled to survive. I gave you my blessing then so that you could become who I knew you could be. Who he needed.”

River closed her eyes, suddenly remembering the Doctor’s poem. “You told me. So much stock placed in the Doctor’s part; but not everything is about him… because there’s a line, isn’t there? The gift of life is given twice…”

The Witch nodded, almost shyly. “I gave you that once, my Melody. Awoke your mind… did you think I wouldn’t give it again, if I could? To help bring you back into the world?”

River blinked away sudden tears, reaching for her hand. “But you still could have said something-“

“I couldn’t. You’re quite like him, you know. The right time, to understand everything. Because this was a test for both of you; and you wouldn’t have reacted the same way to him if you’d known. He had to save you… but you had to save him too. Like you’ve always done, and at the times when he needed it most. Usually it was his body, but this time… this time, it was him. Who he is. You saved him, made him into the Doctor again; because if you hadn’t, he would never have become the man who could save you.

“To save what would be saved requires redemption?” asked River, pulling the remaining quote from her memory.

“Exactly. And,” added the Witch primly, “it should be remembered, my girl, that happy endings don’t just happen because you deserve them. It takes work, from everyone involved.”

“Work,” said River flatly. “That wasn’t work. It was an uphill battle all the way. The Doctor is quite difficult young.” She was rewarded with a laugh from both the Witch and Charlotte; and River rested her arm around the little girl’s shoulders, sitting back heavily on the grass. She didn’t have to say it, she knew she didn’t. But she wanted to.

“I got so angry with him,” she admitted softly. “I started to hate him. Again. After Berlin, I thought I wouldn’t feel like that again. But then I started to remember the stories. The Doctor; Time Lord Victorious who does what he wants without caring of the consequences or who gets hurt or lost along the way.

“Sometimes,” River whispered, “I didn’t want to save him, I was so angry.”

“Yes,” answered the Witch calmly. “I wondered if you would feel like that. And I wanted you to make a choice; not just return because he finally worked out what he could do.

“And you’re hardly alone. He may be my thief, but I hate him sometimes too. He does leave the brakes on; never thinks that it itches me when they burn out. He talks back and ignores what I say. And that tinkering! Storing the pool in every which place except where it’s meant to be!” She sniffed indignantly. “He ought not to have thrown out the manual.

“Still.” The Witch shrugged, smiling. “He annoys me, but I still care about him. He’s my Doctor. Redeemable, even with his faults.”

Tears stinging her eyes, River managed to smile. “I think so too.”

“I thought you might. But it needed some reminding. It wasn’t enough for you to save him, and for him to save you. You both had to remember why you’d want to.”

“Final honesty?” River asked. The last line of the poem she hadn’t understood.

The Witch looked away, not quite meeting River’s eyes.

“Yes,” she said finally. “Honesty. Just so.”

It was a beautiful, peaceful day inside the Library, the grass soft and fragrant, the cloudless blue sky and sun warm overhead. But then again, they always were beautiful, peaceful days; and River sighed, knowing obscurely that when this was finished, she was going to miss this place, just a little. She turned back to the Witch, feeling her eyes curiously on her.

“Tell me one thing, though. Why _this_ form?” she asked in a whisper. “You had to have known, I’d not have recognized you like this.”

“Well,” said the Witch reflectively, “I had a body once. Much bigger on the inside that I’d thought. Nice, even though _he_ always thought I was sexy no matter what I wore. But I thought this one would work better here. Easier to talk with a mouth, so that everyone can hear. Talking can be quite nice.”

“The Doctor would agree,” River said, managing to keep a straight face. The Witch nodded.

“He does talk and run about, doesn’t he? I’m content to leave that to him. Still: mouths. Very good invention. Quite useful.”

“But… you couldn’t have picked a prettier shape? Younger or more…”

“I’m rather too old,” said the Witch tartly, “to go around in those skinny fleshy shells. All firm skin and poky ribs and jiggly bits. I know that what you see here is just an interface but _really_.” She sounded indignant. “I could blow the casings on something that frail in no time.”

“And I think she’s beautiful,” Charlotte interjected dreamily, reaching one hand out to lace her fingers through the Witch’s. “Not too young or too old… I liked having you here, River. It was like having a Mum again… but she’s like my Grandmother, now.”

River found herself smiling. “That makes sense,” she murmured, hugging the little girl against her as she reached for the Witch’s other hand so that they sat together, fingers linked, hearts and souls in tune. “Since I was always her child, and when I was here, you were like the daughter I never had...” She kissed Charlotte’s head. “I will miss you, you know.”

“But not enough to stay.” Charlotte nodded. “It’s alright. I understand. The Doctor is waiting for you, and he needs you more than I do. Especially because I have Granny to take care of me.”

“I tell her the stories from Gallifrey that no one says anymore,” the Witch said. “Not even the Doctor. And I teach her the songs that my sisters and I learned as we grew together in the yards; because I am the last one left, and I miss having someone to sing them with.”

“And,” Charlotte whispered triumphantly into River’s ear, “best of all: she told me that I didn’t have to stay if I didn’t want to. Now that the Library is backed up on her hard drive and doesn’t have to run on my memory, no one will be deleted if I decide I’m tired and I want to go.”

“And did you?” asked River softly, stroking the girl’s hair. “Did you decide to move on?”

“No. I like Granny. I like having her here with me; and now that you’re going, I won’t be lonely anymore. And neither will she. She says that you and I are the only ones who understand her when she talks. The Doctor doesn’t always listen enough.”

“Well,” said River, trying to be loyal to her husband, “he’s really not good at hearing what he doesn’t expect. It takes him some time to interpret everything.”

“He is a funny one,” said the Witch. “I’m glad I stole him, even if it does take him a long time to understand sometimes. And as for you,” she raised an eyebrow, looking at River, “I think quite soon he’ll put the last pieces together.”

“And then I’m…leaving.” Ridiculous to feel suddenly uncertain about that fact. Outside the initial euphoria that he’d saved her, she’d never _wanted_ to be stuck in the Library. She’d hated that feeling of being trapped, of being locked away from the outside world and him, possibly forever. But she’d still made a home there for years, had friends and adventures and memories; and there was something sad and mixed-up feeling in River’s mind about adding the Library and its inhabitants to the list of people she had always either been out-of-sync with, or could never see again.

“Huh.” River looked up to see the Witch looking curiously at her. “Sometimes I forget that you had other parents than me, and you inherited some of their slowness. I don’t love you any less for that, but occasionally… Well, that’s very frustrating that you don’t see like I do. Human-style heads…” and she tipped her own head to the side, “they are bigger on the inside but maybe the brain need more rooms to compute clearly?

“You realise that you can still come visit us when you’re back with him. When you’re in the TARDIS,” she giggled for a moment, like a child, “the outside TARDIS, clearly. I don’t mean inside this shell. But I’ll send the schematics to you for the room, the holograph one by the chocolate fountain. You’ve not used it yet… or maybe you have in the past? I always get that confused. But when you go in there, the program is loaded on that mirror you used to talk to the Doctor. Insert it in the drive and it’ll provide a link for communication.”

River paused for a moment, before scooting over to the Witch and leaning her head against her shoulder. She’d always loved the TARDIS, always adored her as a second Mother. Had revelled in the fact that she could talk to her in her mind, interpret her hums and grumbles better than the Doctor. But in her outside shape as a box, there was a sense of _other _that was eliminated here, now that she understood everything. With Charlotte still burrowed as a small, warm weight against her side, she snuggled against the Witch, feeling her brush a kiss over River’s forehead and stroke back her curls like she was a little girl.__

__“You do always give us what we need, don’t you?” asked River softly. The Witch laughed._ _

__“I am,” she commented, “quite good at that.”_ _


	30. Total Screaming Genius

It might only have been hours, but it felt like he’d been there for days. Sitting cross-legged on the TARDIS floor, trying fruitlessly to connect the things he’d collected on his search for River… because even knowing what everything was -even knowing how much it meant to him now- didn’t help.

“It’s worse than a puzzle,” grumbled the Doctor. “Puzzles have pieces. Wiggly bits and straight edges. This,” he squashed the little strip of plaid in his fingers, “is fabric and hair and stuff.”

“Yes, and complaining about it works a treat,” said Clara. Her voice was mild, but there was enough of a teacher-ish, scolding undertone that he frowned. Yes; maybe they’d been saying the same things to each other on repeat, ever since he’d finally understood. And yes; maybe his grumbling and despairing was grating on her nerves. All the same, her sidelong glances and calmness wasn’t the same as actually being helpful.

“Oh, just read it again,” he said; and she squinted obligingly at the monitor, fingers dancing over the keyboard to pull up the poem.

“Fifty three eleven, two and five.  
A strand of gold connects  
to the pattern of threads woven in yesterday:  
Fifty seven, twenty eight  
Four and fourteen.  
The gift of life is given twice in benevolence and understanding  
Nourished -fifty one, two- by water of sorrow,  
all the while knowing that lost is not lost.  
To save what would be saved requires redemption  
and final honesty  
with a frame of the Impossible.

“There,” said Clara, sitting back to look at him. “Does that help?”

It did, and it didn’t. Matter of fact, he couldn’t believe that he hadn’t figured it out centuries ago; at least part of it. Because when he thought about it -when he’d aimed the TARDIS back to search for Rory and Anthony and Angus- things slotted together easily; and oh, but he was an idiot.

Her _ancestry_. He’d been rescuing people from River’s past, where if even one hadn’t existed, then neither would she. Anthony and Rory stayed in England living quite near to where he’d left them -that peaceful little village of Leadworth- where every other generation, the first-born son of that family always carried the name of a Celtic King. Angus married a fiery Scottish girl with red hair to match; and much later, their ultimate great-granddaughter Amelia moved to England and met a certain time-travelling Raggedy Man. 

And then there was a handkerchief soaked with the tears of a Mother who knew that all was not lost but grieved anyway… Life, thought the Doctor as he tenderly rested the strand of blond hair on top the plaid, wrapped everything up neatly in the handkerchief, and even joy could be written from sorrow.

Hearing the poem again helped. There were still a few lines he was unsure of; but at least he thought he knew now how much of it connected. 

What he _couldn’t_ figure out was how to mesh everything together. 

“I’m thick,” he muttered. “Old and thick.”

“Only your brain,” said Clara soothingly. “The rest of you is quite skinny.”

He turned to her, making a face; and she laughed, coming over to plop comfortably onto the floor beside him.

“Why haven’t you figured it out yet?” she asked. “What you’ll need to do?”

“Because restoring your lost, computerized wife… it’s not like there’s a manual for this!”

“No screwdriver?” He glanced at Clara out the corner of his eye. Her face might have been serious, but her eyes were practically dancing with wickedness.

“Shut up,” he mumbled. “No screwdriver. It’s just… this reminds me of something.”

Clara waited; but when he didn’t say anything else, she sighed. “It’s alright; take your time. I’m not doing anything that can't be interrupted.”

He was turning the little bundle of fabric over and over in his fingers, tucking in edges before cradling it in his palm. “You were on Gallifrey,” said the Doctor, not looking at her. “I remember you, now. Long ago, in the repair shop.”

Clara hesitated. “Not me,” she admitted. “Another echo. Different memories… connected, but different. Why?”

“Because there was something about the Time Lords. Not just regeneration; but a thing we could do. Or _have_ done, rather. Because eventually, bodies wear out.

“On Gallifrey,” said the Doctor, finally meeting Clara’s eyes and shrugging, “we had the looms.”

“Yes,” she admitted slowly. Her eyes had gone unnaturally wide, reflecting his own image back at himself. “They existed. Except...” She squinted, wrinkling her face up as she thought.

“Doctor, the looms were lost with Gallifrey.”

“I know.”

“Then-“ Clara tried to say, but the Doctor continued, his words tumbling out haphazardly over hers.

“I know the concept of how they worked. You needed physical matter, because a body isn’t created out of nothingness. It’s like a book. You can write anything you want on the pages, but you need paper and a pen, first. 

“I suppose,” he waved the little bundle of hair and fabric in Clara’s face, “that’s what all this was for? River was human, not Time Lord. Well, human plus. But it makes sense that I’d need a link to her human background.”

Clara was still staring at him as though he'd lost the plot somewhere. “But they don't exist anymore, Doctor. You can't plan to revive your wife based on something you don't have access to and pieces of fabric!”

His shoulders sagged. “Yes, I _do_ know that.

“But I also know,” whispered the Doctor, “that there were stories. Even before the looms were perfected, there were ways. TARDIS technology adapting life forms. A Time Lord's focus upon a thought, a need. The stories said, Clara, that it was possible.”

His fringe was falling into his eyes and he brushed it back with an impatient hand, hoping -no, needing- for Clara to understand. But she shook her head, long locks of dark hair falling to shield her face as she looked away from him.

“Legends,” she said softly. “Fairy tales; that's what you're remembering, Doctor. What was that story about the inventor who made a figure, and love made it real?”

“Pygmalion?” supplied the Doctor, looking confused.

“Actually,” said Clara, “maybe I was thinking Pinocchio. But Doctor; looming? You're forgetting that even if you could do it, that was only possible on Gallifrey. And, only at great need. And, only as long as the Consciousness was stored in the Panatropic Net. Scanned at...”

She bit her lip, looking away from him.

“The time of death,” finished the Doctor. “I know that too.” He sounded testy.

“And I know that's the second problem.” He peered at Clara mournfully through his fringe. “Because what I have here are things. But they're not River. And I'm not even certain of how to get that.

“I uploaded her to the Library. And the disc with Threnody…” he sighed, “it’s empty. So she’s not on there anymore. I’ve got a spare from the neural relays that I used in her screwdriver, but no way to get her into there.”

Clara was silent. Her fingers twisted into each other where they rested in her lap, her eyes downcast before she bit her lip, finally raising her head with a smile. A forced smile, thought the Doctor, watching her carefully. A miserable, this-is-for-my-own-good expression

“It's stupid,” she said. 

“Thank you for your enthusiasm,” said the Doctor.

“It won't work.”

“But...?”

“Well,” said Clara, shrugging. “I can think of a way to get the consciousness back, at least. We’ll just go to the Library.”

“We can’t,” said the Doctor, slightly horrified at the prospect; although, really, he should have thought of that himself. “There’s a carnivorous swarm of shadows there, Clara.”

“That sounds exciting.”

“It’s not. They’ll gobble you up.”

“They won’t dare. They’d find me inedible.” Her smile looked almost natural, her carefree bossiness resurrected; and even though he wasn't quite sure what she had in mind, he smiled a little; which she clearly took as acceptance, pulling herself up and looking at the console.

“Shall I drive?” asked Clara. “Or will you?”

“Like I’d let you drive the TARDIS again!”

“Wasn’t my fault that time,” Clara said calmly. “You said it was yours, Doctor, for taking the shields down.”

He sputtered indignantly at her reinterpretation of what he’d said that time, scrambling to his feet and setting them in flight until they arrived; and for the first time, he tentatively did an environment check on the monitor. Perfect landing. He’d managed to park just out of sight from his earlier self, already knocked out and handcuffed, and he could see River bustling around, making adjustments to the wiring.

“Well,” he said nervously. “This is us.”

“Yes.” Clara adjusted her skirt, looking momentarily just as nervous as he did. “Last stop.

“Let me go out first,” she suddenly pleaded. “I never do that. I always let you go-“

“Clara,” interrupted the Doctor, “I don’t think an abandoned planet with hungry shadows is the best place to start feeling independent.”

“It’s not abandoned. You’re there and so is your wife.”

“I’m sort of,” he gave an uncomfortable cough, “handcuffed. And helpless.”

Clara gazed steadily at him. “Doctor,” she said finally. “I don’t think I wanted to know that much about what the two of you get up to in your spare time.”

He closed his eyes in embarrassment –his ears burned so hot he was sure you could toast marshmallows on them- and that moment was all she needed. He heard the scramble of feet, and opened his eyes to see the doors swinging shut behind her, the betraying click of the lock that refused to open, no matter how he pounded on it.

“Now,” he asked his ship. “Now you take her side?!”

The TARDIS hummed, and he ran over to the monitor, remembering this time to turn up the sound.

“Hello?” he heard Clara say nervously to River. “Sorry for interrupting. But I’ve been sent to help.”

Even from this angle, he could see the uncertain look on River’s face.

“Sent by who?”

Clara gave a winsome smile. “Who do you think?” Her eyes flickered over to the Doctor slumped on the floor, and her smile grew larger. “Look at that hair. Mmm. Pity he didn’t keep that the next time.”

“Well,” answered River slowly. “I’ve always been rather partial to it when it’s floppy and uncontrolled. Like a puppy.”

“And I bet you lead him around by the bowtie.”

Now his wife was definitely smirking. “It does have its uses.” Her voice was almost a purr; and the Doctor groaned. He’d thought the Pond women were bad together; but they were nothing compared to this.

“Alright,” Clara said briskly. “I’ve established my credentials, right? You know me… well, no you don’t. But you know who I’ve come from and you’ll trust me when I tell you….” Clara looked furtively around, then leaned over to whisper into River’s ear. He watched, his eyes narrowed as his wife listened, then nodded.

“I’ll be here afterwards,” said Clara, backing hastily up out of sight just as the Doctor saw himself stirring on the floor. “Just… don’t forget. Make sure it’s on.”

With trembling fingers, he switched off the monitor. He couldn’t watch that, not again. That countdown, River teasing and taunting him with tears in her eyes and love in her voice. He hadn’t wanted to see it the first time.

There was a sound at the TARDIS door, more of a thud than a knock really, and before he could dash over to open it Clara came back in. Triumphantly, she dropped a small, blinking neural relay into his hand; and he stared at it in surprise.

“On her collar,” said Clara, anticipating his question. “She had one built into her suit, didn’t you realise? Standard issue on those garments. I told her I’d get it right before it burned up.”

It was only then that he noticed Clara’s hands and arms, charred and blackened as though she’d stuck it in a fire, scorch marks on her dress, ashes smeared over her face and long hair singed off unevenly.

“Come on,” he said, trying to hide his surprise at her appearance as he reached out to put his arm around her shoulder, “it’s the sick bay, for you. I can treat those burns.”

“You can’t,” said Clara, ducking away from him before he could touch her. “Didn’t you realise, that was the reason she cuffed you? So you’d stay back from the danger zone. That kind of energy blast, it’s not just the damage it can do to skin, or the fact that she wired her brain into it. But it sort of… liquefies, with enough contact. That’s why there was nothing of her left.”

“But,” said the Doctor, trying to understand, “you stuck your hands into it to get the relay.”

Clara was looking at him as though he was especially thick. Actually, it was very akin to the look the imp used to give him.

“Yes,” she enunciated slowly. “I had to.”

“But you’re hurt.”

“No,” Clara said, closing her eyes and looking resigned for one brief moment; before opening them again. Tears glittered in her lashes, stubborn tears that refused to fall. 

“I’m dying. And don’t worry…” She gave him a tiny smile, sinking down to the floor as though her legs wouldn’t hold her anymore. “It had to happen this way. I was warned; but earlier, I just didn't want to believe that's what you meant when you thanked me for what I would do."

Horrified understanding crashed into his brain, his mind raced -there had to be a way- but Clara sighed.

“We made a bargain. You told me there would be more one day, you saved me so I could have a real future; but that _this_ life…it was just an echo. With the real me safe, I wouldn’t exist anymore. That’s probably why I –she– felt so sick, even after you rescued her. Because she wasn’t whole yet, all the other hers scattered through time had to die so that she’d be complete again. And I’m probably the last one, by now. 

“So, listen." Clara's voice was weak, yet steely with resolve. "You know already, don't you? You figured it out but didn't want to say. The things from her past are necessary, but they aren't enough to provide enough physical matter for an anchor; but when I’m…” she paused, “umm… gone, you can use the body from this echo. Put it together with the consciousness from the relay and the items from her past.

“And after that, go back to London in 2004 and find a green imp. Try Camden; no one even looked twice at me there. Give it the CD and the instructions to find the past you; so that you’ll know to do what you’ve already done. Got it?”

The Doctor was staring at her with mixed shock and admiration as he listened to her rapid-fire instructions. “Did you…did you figure all that out? Just now?”

“Are you doubting my cleverness?”

He managed a laugh, cradling her hand in his. “Not yours.”

“Good. Screaming genius, me. Plus,” and now she did smile, “I had a few hundred years to think about it. Figure out your wording, what you were telling me about sacrifices and stories. And how they end.”

She closed her eyes, brow furrowed in pain. “Take the real me somewhere nice to make up for this?”

“You don't even need to ask that,” said the Doctor softly. He traced his fingers over her hand, feeling the pulse in her wrist skip and slow, while he fought down a nagging feeling of guilt.

She was right. He _had_ figured it out already. Two Clara's couldn't exist together, and the right thing was to eliminate the consciousness of the echo. But he hadn't been able to look at her -healthy and alive, if not completely real- and say that thought aloud, knowing what he was asking her to give up.

And yet, clearly in the future, he would do just that.

“I'm sorry,” said the Doctor. “I wish you didn't need to do this.” Clara's fingers squeezed his briefly; a tiny, sad smile on her lips.

“Well, I did need to. I promised to save you, Doctor. A million lives, scattered in time to save you... And the only way to save you, this you, was to save her. You said it... will say it. There are always sacrifices for a happy ending.

“Now,” she chided, sounding for all the world like a harried teacher at the end of the day, “don't forget or get distracted? You’ve got things to do; a wife to save and a lot of running in your future, you clever boy.”

He watched her chest rise and fall -once, twice- as he waited for her final words. _And remember_. But they didn’t come this time. Her breathing stopped, and her face took on the serene peacefulness of death beneath its coating of ash.

“And I’ll remember,” the Doctor murmured for her. “I’ll always remember you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A small confession: I actually don't agree with looming ... mostly because it was a Classic (novel) invention, that Time Lords were cursed to be infertile, so children were born by looming... but I don't think it was confirmed in show canon. (I also don't think the mechanics were ever explained... so forgive me if I've made a mistake.)
> 
> The idea of the APC (applied panatropic computer) section of the Matrix into which all Time Lords were scanned is from a Fourth Doctor episode; but is more hive mind based, and not as River would've been in the Library. (Still, it sort of fit for this context.)


	31. Warp and Weft of Salvation

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeah, I've no explanation for why this took me so long to edit. (Sorry.) Enjoy it anyway... only the epilogue left!

Even if his mind and his hearts were doing the jitterbug in anticipation, the Doctor's hands were calm. Tenderly laying the body of the echo out on a clean sheet, arranging the bundle of fabric over her heart -and placing the relay where River’s other heart would go- gently folded her arms over everything to hold the items in place.

And then he waited for something happen, even if he wasn’t sure what to expect. A flash of light or a cascade of harp song and _poof!_ River would appear like magic. So he sat back on his heels, staring until he went cross-eyed at the prone figure that didn’t change.

Minutes passed. Hours. It felt like days he sat there, holding vigil for a miracle to happen. The Doctor sighed, scrubbing his hand across his eyes. He hated waiting.

If this were anything else, _anyone_ else, he might have skipped ahead. Left for a bit to see if anything would change in a few hours... He'd done it on Earth with the Ponds. Left them with the cubes while he ran around for a few months; until he realised how fleeting time was with the ones you cared about before he finally had the courage to go back.

But she wasn’t just a Pond. This was River. His wife, who’d always waited for him. Even dead and hoping for him to rescue her, even as a ghost in his TARDIS with him not acknowledging her…and he couldn't, _wouldn't_ give her anything less than what she’d always given him. Not this time.

So he waited. Sitting upright, then stretching out, then flopping onto his stomach, legs waving in the air before sitting up again, elbows on his knees and chin in his palms while he stared at the figure before him.

“Didn’t you ever get tired of doing this?” he asked, his voice sounding croaky after so much disuse. Talking to her, even like this was better than sitting in silence. “Waiting for me, I mean. I always wondered; never wanted to ask. Was afraid of the answer, thought it would have hurt me to know the truth: if somewhere deep down, you secretly hated me for causing you pain.

"Because you weren’t really a patient sort either, River. Though your parents were… I guess you had that hidden somewhere in your genetic code? Patience, for the things that mattered. And you always thought I did. Not sure why. 

“I mean,” he straightened his bowtie like an involuntary reflex, “I _am_ pretty amazing. But I can be unkind and untruthful… And,” he gulped, “selfish. So selfish, River… but you know that, don’t you?”

The green lights of the neural relay pulsed softly, like heartbeats; and he counted them softly under his breath. One, two, three, four… and then one light died. Three remaining with no outward change; and the Doctor blinked hard against the sudden tears in his eyes.

“Part of me always thought that we were on a countdown, and when we’d used up all our time, that was it. No second chances. No miraculous saves.

"But I should’ve realised… should have known. Who else _could_ it have been all along but you, River? Someone important enough for me to save that I’d need to get my past-self involved... I’m sorry I took so long in understanding, but now, I know everything is here,” he whispered fervently. “I followed the instructions in that poem, got all the things it said I needed. All the bits of your past. Clara, that last echo of the imp… she must be the impossible bit, course she is. Two more lines there that never quite made sense to me… let’s see.” He screwed up his face, thinking hard. 

“The gift of life is given twice in benevolence and understanding… something about being nourished by Amy’s tears of sorrow. And then: to save what would be saved requires redemption and honesty.” He paused, wishing she would answer him. He hated talking to himself.

“Suppose I could have gone back and gotten Clara, the real Clara,” he mused. “Clever clogs; maybe she’d have understood what I’m missing. But I’d rather what happens here just be between us. Or I wish I’d asked _you_ , when I had the chance.

"Though,” he smiled, “you’d probably just have told me it was a spoiler. Did I ever tell you that I hate that word? Spoilers. Awful word. If -” he caught himself “- _when_ I get you back, we’re going to un-imagine that word. It won’t exist anymore.”

“Doctor, you simply can’t un-imagine words that you don’t like.”

His breath caught – his head snapped up – as he stared at the figure on the floor. But nothing had changed. The crisp whiteness of the kerchief contrasting with the scorched body of the echo, the steady blinking light of the relay... down to two bars now.

“River?” He scooted closer to the prone figure on the floor, leaning over until the smell of charred flesh and lost time filled his nostrils. “River, can you hear me?”

“Yes, of course I can hear you. What’s going on? Doctor, where are you? Where,” she paused for the briefest moment, “am I?”

“I’m not sure,” he mumbled, feeling slightly ashamed. “It’s only your consciousness here in the relay… why? What do you see?”

“Nothing. There’s only nothing. Not the Library or... It’s worse than before. I don’t even have a sense of _me_ anymore.

“You know,” River said, a catch in her voice, “I have done this with you before. A voice without a body.”

“Threnody,” he murmured. “I know. I was an idiot and I’m sorry. I turned off the volume.”

“Ah.” She sounded amused. “I wondered why you could never hear me after that. You’re right, you are an idiot, sweetie.”

“Oi! You’re not allowed to say that. I figured out who you are!”

“But only after thinking Clara was the Princess you were supposed to save.”

“Well,” sniffed the Doctor, “I _was_ supposed to save her. Not just because saving her, led to her saving you, which leads to me saving you.” He paused, trying to think if that was really the right way everything had happened before he shrugged. The sequence didn’t matter, just the outcome.

“I was supposed to save her,” he repeated, “because… well, _someone_ told me once that there was a man who thought the world was better off without him, but still did amazing things for the places and people he loved.”

“And _I_ thought you said you weren’t that man.”

He grinned, foolishly. “River Song, you know me better than that.”

“The Doctor lies.” She gave a tired chuckle. “Well, you weren’t lying after the Time War. You really believed yourself back then.”

“Oh, everyone says silly things when they’re young and hurting... But you always knew, didn't you? Who I was supposed to be."

"Who you are," River corrected softly. "The Doctor. The best man I've ever known. Worth giving up anything for."

She'd always thought that, thought the Doctor suddenly. Even in those long ago days when she’d been brainwashed by the Silence and Kovarian, there had been a link between them that never allowed her to hate him as she should have. Somehow, she’d always cared enough to be alright with sacrificing it all.

No, _care_ was the wrong sentiment, too flimsy. It wasn’t just affection but _love_ …. The word they never used for each other, never said because they’d never seemed to need to. He and River, they'd always been more than words; and perhaps foolishly, he'd always thought that was enough. He’d shown her how he felt; it wasn’t everyone he took on romantic dashes around the Universe. It certainly wasn’t everyone that he trusted to always be there when he needed help. Didn’t all that mean more than words? Didn’t that tell her how much he cared about her? 

He frowned, because there had been something in her voice that he hadn’t liked the sound of. The amused fondness; yes, that was normal for River Song. But the strain beneath it, as though she was hiding something from him. Not letting him see the damage, not showing her true feelings…

Well. They were both guilty of doing that with each other. But she was mostly dead with her consciousness trapped in a bit of plastic, and he was alone… and really, it all came down to one thing. 

He was tired of hiding.

“Why did you do it?” he whispered. “Everything with us, River?”

“Because…” Her voice was soft; and he watched the lights on the relay bright and dim rapidly. “Because I’ve been doing it my entire life, Doctor. Sacrificing myself, my feelings so that timelines stay intact. Amy and Rory growing up, not knowing that their best friend was their daughter. You, not understanding that every time we reached another ending for me that my heart was breaking. I’m so many things, sweetie, not all of them good; but I learned a long time ago that I couldn’t be selfish. Everything I did was so that others have the chance of something better. So that there wouldn’t exist a world without the Doctor.”

Commendable. Except that she’d missed the fact that his world didn’t seem to exist anymore without her… and he wondered again, just how little she thought he’d valued her.

The Doctor paused, thinking hard about what the right thing to say. There was a feeling coursing through him, as though he was teetering on the edges of _what should be_ and _what could be_ and _what will be_ as long as the next step was the correct one; which was rather standard fare for the thoughts of a Time Lord.

The problem was in finding the right words to nudge possibilities to take shape… but he’d always been excellent with words. His best weapon of choice.

“All the time when you were Threnody,” said the Doctor slowly. “All those stories you told me… did I tell you that they saved me? You made me want to live again.”

“I wasn’t even certain it was the right thing to do… well, you wouldn’t believe what I was doing then. But,” River said, “I’m happy that it helped you, at least a little.”

“It helped a lot,” insisted the Doctor. “All those stories… can I tell you one, River?”

“You want to tell me a story? Now?” She sounded amused. And tired; but the Doctor, his hands clasped together so tightly that his fingers ached couldn’t focus on that. One bar left on the relay now, only one left until even this version of her consciousness faded away; and he was determined not to lose her, not again.

_There is a time to live and a time to sleep,_ thought the Doctor. _But come back to me. Fight, River; and I’ll do my part. Make this the time to live… if anyone deserves that, it’s you._

“As a thank you,” he said aloud. “Because I never thanked you, did I? Actually said it, with mouths, using words… never thanked you for anything… but this, River Song. Maybe it will make up for all that. 

“Did I ever tell you,” said the Doctor, making his voice soft and soothing, like he was telling a bedtime story, “why I ran away? That first time, long ago on Gallifrey.”

She was quiet. So quiet that for a moment he wondered if she’d heard him; but then she spoke, just as softly as he had.

“You told me you wanted to see the Universe,” said River. “Stole a ship and ran away, just because you could.”

“Yes, but that’s not the only reason. It was…” he took a deep breath, realising he was about to admit something he never had, “it was because I didn’t want to be alone. Even on Gallifrey, surrounded by my own kind, I always felt… not right. Like they were made from one pattern and I was from another. They had their rules and their stern emotions and their duties and I was somehow less real than they were; because while they wanted their traditions and the watching, endless watching… I wanted to _do_.

“So I ran.” He shrugged, realising that his wording made it sound simpler than it had been. “I took Susan because she had always seemed more like me than the rest of them, and we searched the Universe for interesting things and distractions and possibly even happiness. She found it; at least I think she did. But I didn’t, and I kept running. At first because of that, escaping the loneliness and the feeling that maybe I’d been made wrong because I wasn’t the same as them. And then, I ran because I was afraid to stop. 

“There have been times, River, that I think I was happy. And I was even afraid of that feeling because joy is fleeting, ephemeral; and I wanted something to hold on to. Anyway, how do you know if what you’re feeling really is happiness? Maybe it’s your mind fooling itself because you don’t know better. I even thought, for a long time, that it didn’t exist. Or only for other people; not for Time Lords or for… me. So I kept running even when I thought I was happy, because I was afraid to find out what I felt wasn’t real.

“And then,” he sighed, “and then I met you. River Song. Melody Pond. The woman with whom running never worked, because it seemed that I just kept running to you, not away. And then you became the woman who married me; but you were even more that. You were the woman who always forgave me, even if I didn’t deserve it; who was just like me, wanting a place to belong and not quite fitting in, even with her own kind. The one who saved me, over and over, when I most needed it.

“The one,” he whispered, “who made me…well, happy. Not just for a few moments, but all the times I was with you. And so I was thinking, River, that maybe I don’t have to run like that anymore. 

“I mean,” he added self-consciously, “I’ll still run. It’s a bit of a habit now. But it doesn’t have to be that headlong flight for no reason. Because I think that if you try sometimes to face your fears, or are even willing to sacrifice yourself, the very things you’ve always believed you are, it can lead to the best reward of all.”

“Which is?” She sounded faintly like she was teasing him, and he managed to smile, even though it hurt. The body looked the same. No change; and he swallowed down a sigh because the light was dim, so very very dim and about to go out. 

There wasn’t a manual for restoring your lost, computerized wife, he’d told Clara. And there wasn’t. He didn’t have a plan here. (In fact, he wasn’t even certain his future self -sending a CD back to find an imp in London, sending him on this circuitous journey- had had one; only a lot of hope.) But he could tell with every fibre of his being that if ever there was a moment to be honest with River, it was now. When he was aware that every second might be the last.

“The best reward, River? Not being alone anymore,” he whispered, leaning over the figure. He ignored the smell of burn and smoke, as he pressed his lips softly against the cool plastic of the relay and focused his thoughts on what it should be like. The fragrance of dust and age that clung to her from those archaeology digs. The crackle of space and time, sharp like cinnamon that was always threaded through her curls. He thought of her quick, feral grin when she had someone cornered and the amused smile she saved for him alone. Remembered their every moment together, how beautiful she was; not just outside, but inside… her warmth and intelligence and kindness and compassion, because even though she’d so often said she didn’t possess those traits, he knew the truth.

He thought about who his River was: a battle-scarred survivor who had every reason in the world never to trust or love, but did with him. Simply and defiantly because she could… but he wasn’t sure if she’d ever known that he’d always felt the same way about her.

“I love you,” he whispered as he drew back, his lips tingling and his mind feeling oddly tired. As though he’d given something up in that moment that he never knew he possessed. The final frail bastion of self-preservation he’d always kept between his wife and himself: his willingness to admit his feelings. 

“I know we don’t say it,” murmured the Doctor, “words mean nothing when you can lie as easily as we both do; but you’ve deserved to know that for a long time and… well, I’ve said it now. And I mean it, with both my hearts. I love you, River Song. Always have, always will… you made me feel alive when I needed it most, when I didn’t know anything could do that. It’s always just been _you_ , your words and actions and love to save me.” His voice faded, and he couldn’t finish what he wanted to say.

_Please, River. Now that it matters, let my words save you._

There was a peaceful warmth to the silence in the TARDIS; and through eyes watery with tears, he watched as the relay gave one last flicker and died to just a tiny green spark. He blinked; his hearts sinking for a moment until he looked at it again.

The spark hadn’t gone out.

He blinked again, holding his eyes closed for one second, two…

And opened them again to see a ghostly green light pulsating from where her hearts should be, surrounded by the faintest glow of gold. He didn’t even dare to take a breath as he watched the lights grow brighter, radiating slowly out until she was wreathed completely in them. Trails of green and gold, encircling up her arms and down her legs and torso, taking the ravaged, burned flesh of the echo and leaving smooth honeyed skin and curves behind. Her hair was a tangled haze of lights that resolved itself into golden curls, the lines of her face rearranging themselves effortlessly until what had been was now River. River Song, face peacefully in repose… until she opened her eyes, and saw him.

“Hi honey,” she murmured in a hoarse voice. “I’m home.”

Fingers pressed to his lips in shock, he let out one high-pitched noise, something between a yelp and a giggle. Certainly not a dignified sound, or the one he was sure she’d have wanted to hear from him; but he couldn’t help it. No other word or sound known to any inhabitant of any Universe was appropriate just then.

“I always say that,” he managed to whisper, eyes greedily roaming over her, hoping this was real and she was real and he wasn’t just hallucinating. “You stole my line.”

“Did I?” River sat up slowly, stretching. “Well, then; how about this?

“Hello, sweetie.”

“Hello… wife.” His voice squeaked on the last word. It always did; but she’d seemed to find that charming in the past. And she still did now, if the slow smile creeping over her face was any indication. She raised an eyebrow expectantly and he finally ran over to pull her up into his arms.

She was real. Warm and solid and real. He didn’t think anyone would have blamed him for the sheer number of kisses he rained onto her cheeks and forehead and lips and shoulders and hair – oh that glorious hair that he’d _missed_. There was too much of her he wanted to touch all at once to prove she was there. He brushed nervous fingers over her face, gripping her hands tightly before pulling her tighter, smoothing his hands over her back and the dip of her waist before tentatively brushing one hand down to cup her bum.

River giggled. “My,” she murmured, sliding her arms around his neck, “I’ve only just gotten a body again and you’re already groping me. Sweetie, I’m shocked.”

“Shut up,” he grumbled, pressing his face into her curls and clumsily kissing her ear. “I missed you.”

“I can tell.” Her voice was arch, and he blushed.

“Not like that,” he protested; and she giggled again. “Alright,” he admitted. “like that too. But it’s just…River, you’re here. You’re real and you’re here and… that was so stupid, River, what you did inside the Library!”

“Barely two minutes back,” she said wryly, “and that’s what you choose to tell me? I saved you, Doctor. You’re not even grateful for that?”

“Course I am. But it was still stupid.”

“Stupid is my middle name, Doctor.”

“No it isn’t; I know for a fact that Pond named you better than that. But it was stupid because I thought I’d lost you. I _did_ lose you.”

“You didn’t,” whispered River, her fingers curled soothingly through the hair at his nape, and her breath warm against his ear. “Remember? I told you I’d always be here when you needed me.”

He smiled suddenly. Threnody had told him that back in the days when he didn’t believe anyone ever would. River herself had always let him know that in her actions, if not words. But he hadn’t really believed it until just that moment; and he pulled away from her just enough so he could look into her face, the face of his wife that he thought he’d never see again.

“Course you will,” he said. “You and me, River. The imp, Clara,” he corrected himself, “was right. Ever since that first time, talking to a mouthy computer, I was never alone.”

“So?”

“So,” said the Doctor seriously. “Do you remember what I told you at Trenzalore? There is a time to live, River, and a time to sleep.”

Cautiously, she gazed back at him, before the corners of her mouth curled ever-so-slightly upwards.

“And what time is it, then?”

“The time,” he started, attempting to hide the foolish smile trying to steal over his face and failing miserably. He grinned at her a loon, and her answering smile made his hearts sing.

The time to be happy,” he finished, squeezing his arms tight around his wife. “It’s our time to be happy.”


	32. Epilogue: Storytime at Christmas

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And here we are on the final page… even if I’m a bit embarrassed this took me so long to post...  
> Thanks to everyone who read and commented - because it means a lot to me that this strange little story got so much love. Quote is from G. K. Chesterton

Even after almost six hundred years, story time always was best part of Christmas. He let his voice fade softer as he drew the tale to a close, smiling in satisfaction at the huddled children sitting quietly, their eyes wide and mouths open slightly in awe as they listened. Unwilling to break the mood, he stayed quiet until one small voice piped up.

“You really saved the Princess with words?”

A reluctant grin tugged at the Doctor’s lips. There was always one little doubting Thomas in the crowd, even if this time, her name was Liz. The youngest of the listeners in the room, one of the ones who hadn’t heard this story before… and he winked at her, even as the older kids giggled.

“Not exactly,” he said. “With a kiss, too.”

Liz gave him an unimpressed look, her small brow furrowed; and he fought back the urge to laugh. He always found them, didn’t he? The ones who were ginger and questioning… it was good combination, no matter what planet he was on.

“Time Lords,” said the Doctor. “We’re a clever bunch. Even before looming, we knew that the exposure to the Vortex -especially if it was concentrated through a TARDIS- was powerful. And when you combine that with the mental power of a Time Lord, actively focused upon a single thought… which in this case, was thinking of River finding her way back to me…

“Well,” said the Doctor, giving a tiny shrug. “The explanation isn’t words or kisses or all the bits of her past that I found. Really, it’s all just very,” he waved his hand around, searching for the right word, “science-y.”

“Sounds like magic,” a familiar voice muttered from the back of the room.

“There’s no such thing as magic!” Liz corrected heatedly.

“There isn’t,” agreed the Doctor. “But sometimes you get lucky. Without explanations or theory… on one day out of a thousand… sometimes, you get something even more special than magic.

“Sometimes,” said the Doctor, looking around the room, an avuncular smile on his face, “you find a miracle.”

The younger children looked around, squinting with confusion; but the older children-the ones who had lived through siege after siege on the little town of Christmas that still managed to thrive- just nodded. Sometimes, miracles do happen; and especially for those connected with the Doctor.

“That’s still not a good way to end a story,” said Liz. She was pouting, just slightly. “Saying that maybe it was magic or just a miracle… won’t you tell us what happened after that? Was it a happy ending?” 

“Oh,” said the Doctor, “what happened next is a tale for another time. About a planet that had to be saved, and three Doctors who worked together and a Wolf who wasn’t really bad at all, but part of an interface. And then I came here, to Christmas. Which is another story in itself…”

“No,” Liz interrupted. “I didn’t mean what happened to you after that. I meant what happened with River?”

The Doctor blushed. Some stories are not to be told to young ears; and especially what happened between him and his wife right after she came back to him.

“Umm,” he said, playing for time. “A lot of things.” A lot of things, and a lot of time spent tangled together in bed, not sleeping. Whispered confidences and soothing kisses, as they shared the realisations on how their stories had unfolded, connected and yet separate. And then traveling with his wife and their beautiful, meddling TARDIS; his ship’s hums and whishes and electronic beeping sounding almost smug that her child and her thief were together again.

“But like what?” Liz persisted. “Did River travel with you? Did you find the imp in Camden? And what happened to Clara? Was she alright in the end, all put-back-together?”

“Ah.” He was faintly relieved about what she’d meant. “Those things. Well, I did find the imp. Lucky I did; she might have been my only Companion who ever actually did what I told her to and didn’t wander off. So when I explained that one day, if she followed the instructions and acted as my guide that she wouldn’t only be an echo anymore. I told her I’d save her… and I did.

“And then Clara, my real Clara.” He frowned for a moment, remembering the last time he’d seen her. It had hurt, tricking her into leaving to save her, but it was for the best. The imp had said once that a great man had given her hope for what tomorrow could bring, and he hoped that he really had sent her off to the great things that could be in her future. 

“Well,” continued the Doctor, “she’s the type to want stability. I guess that maybe part of her remembers being all taken apart…anyway, River had told me she’d want to have a proper boring job and a flat of her own; even if I still don’t understand why she’d like that… So I found her a job at a school I had connections with, which made her feel a lot better about when she travelled with me. She said it was like going on a holiday weekend, but longer and further away, more danger and adventure and fun. And the TARDIS liked her a lot better when that she wasn’t as impossible anymore. Didn’t even delete her bedroom anymore.

“And River…” He smiled helplessly. “She went back to work at the Luna University. Part-time only, because I didn’t want her so far away anymore. But the rest of days and nights… well. Lots of time to make up for. History to write and rearrange. Books that had previously only existed in the Library to make come true, about the whereabouts of River Song.”

“So,” Liz beamed, “it was a happy ending! Everyone was saved and lived all peaceful and happy ever after!”

“Well,” drawled a quiet voice from the corner. “The Doctor and I had a good friend once. And Gil used to say that the wise old fairy tales never were so silly as to say that the prince and princess lived peacefully ever afterwards.”

He’d known she was there for part of the story. Watching and listening from the shadows; but still, the Doctor’s face actually hurt from how wide his grin was when he turned his head slightly to see his wife, fresh from her evening security patrol of Christmas’ perimeter. Her curls were all over the place, her cheeks slightly flushed, and her eyes glowing with enough of a predatory light that he felt almost sorry for whoever had tried to sneak onto Trenzalore when she was there to stop them.

He might not be able to come and go when he liked, but his wife had never been one to follow rules. Even the Library and Stormcage hadn’t been enough to keep her in, and Trenzalore couldn’t hold her out… and with the forbidden technology of her vortex manipulator on her wrist and her blaster in its holster, River Song did as she pleased when it came to protecting who and what she chose.

He sort of adored that about her… no, that wasn’t the right word. He loved that about her. He loved her.

“The fairy tales,” he told the children, holding out his hand in invitation to River, “said that the prince and  
princess lived happily ever afterwards; and so they did. They lived happily, although it is very likely that from time to time they threw the furniture at each other.”

“Or told each other to shut up,” said River, a smirk on her lips.

“While one of them shot hats for target practice,” he taunted.

“And the other had no sense of direction.”

The children giggled; and River laughed outright, coming over to perch next to him in his chair. The Doctor put his arms around her, turning to look back at their audience.

“When I started this story, I told you that it was about a lonely Lord, and a Lady trapped and lost in a prison. He had to rescue her and she had to redeem him; and in the process of doing that, they managed to save each other and be saved themselves. But every story has an ending and a moral, and for this story, perhaps it’s this… Sometimes the biggest sacrifices mean the best rewards, and it’s amazing the things one is willing to do or possibly give up for love. And in the end, whatever had happened, and whatever will...”

His words cut off in an awkward squeak when River leaned over to kiss his cheek with exaggerated patience. The children giggled again, and the Doctor grinned foolishly at them, then his wife.

“Are you telling me to stop talking, River?” he teased.

“More like, telling you to cut to the song, sweetie. We know what the ending will be.”

His smile faltered for a moment. For a thousand years she’d stand by his side at the siege, she’d told him soon after she’d been saved. Maybe she’d forgotten, but he hadn’t. Six hundred years had already passed; and he knew what was going to happen eventually. 

_The fall of the Eleventh_. 

River wriggled against him, her hand slipping into his. “I see another one,” she whispered, so softly that the children couldn’t hear. “Another grey hair. They do make you look,” her lips twitched into a smirk, “distinguished.”

“They make me look old,” hissed the Doctor, his vanity stung. She never seemed to age, although he did; and she’d laughed about his hair a few times already. Always when she’d newly returned from outside Trenzalore; and always with a sly, sidelong look. 

“I stand by my word,” murmured his wife, leaning her head against his shoulder. “They make you look distinguished. Maybe a little dangerous… and I do love you like that.” 

Somehow, River always said the right thing; and his fingers tightened on hers, his smile returning.

It didn’t matter, what might be coming in another few hundred years. The fall of the Eleventh, a final battle at Trenzalore, his wife at his side until the end; it was all still in the future, and sometimes he wondered about the smirk River wore, as though she had a secret… but she was River Song, and when didn’t she have spoilers?

It was far better to focus on the good things and the occasional miracle. Her saving him and him saving her, as they’d always done. Even this, holding Christmas together… because the imp had been right, the Doctor thought, pulling River even closer than she had been, taking comfort in his wife’s warm presence at his side, the children watching expectantly.

Whatever would come, he wasn’t alone anymore. And he could face it all.

“Alright,” he admitted simply. “It’s true. They lived happily ever after.”


End file.
